


Built for Failure

by Cinnamonleaf



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But I promise it isn't all that dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Modern AU, PTSD, Prison, Self-Harm, This reads dire and horrible, Trauma, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 55,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamonleaf/pseuds/Cinnamonleaf
Summary: Francesco Pazzi works for his uncle, at his family's bank in Florence. Life could be beautiful, as indeed it is for everyone but him. When the pressure of his secrets starts to crush him, who will come to his aid?
Relationships: Bianca di Piero de' Medici/Guglielmo de' Pazzi, Francesco de' Pazzi & Guglielmo de' Pazzi, Francesco de' Pazzi & Jacopo de' Pazzi, Francesco de' Pazzi & Lorenzo de' Medici, Francesco de' Pazzi/Lucrezia Donati, Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici/Clarice Orsini
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a classic love story.  
> I meant to write an independent work and this is what happened. After 8 months of work, here is the (for now) final result! Enjoy!

Golden light poured onto the street and the pulse of a bass made the old cobblestones vibrate under Francesco’s feet as he approached the source of the commotion that disrupted the quiet night. Slung across his body was a leather satchel, in which he carried what Guglielmo would have called an obscene amount of paperwork. His polished leather shoes would have audibly clicked on the stones, had the noise of the music not overpowered even the quiet thoughts in his mind. With a start, Francesco remembered passing through the street that morning, head full of work questions and drowsiness, and only marginally noticing the gardeners and builders and artists swarming the gallery like ants. He had not been interested in what kind of exhibition they were putting on - he did not care about these things - and so the grand party they seemed to be throwing had caught him very much off guard.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he saw that Guglielmo had texted to check on him. When he saw the time - well past ten o’clock - he felt guilty for a moment. He had promised Guglielmo to work less and here he was, returning home from work with more work. Considering that they both lived in the same city, Francesco and Guglielmo saw surprisingly little of each other. Their spheres were so drastically different and Francesco’s work was the precise reason he stayed away from his older brother for longer than he would have wished if he had a choice in the matter. Even the text messages they exchanged felt like a forbidden act, to be performed on a break, locked into a stall at the men’s bathroom or under his desk while he was alone in his office. Never out in the open.

Francesco approached the light and noise like a moth drawn towards the brightness. The people inside the crowded gallery looked like they were having a great time. The mass of bodies was writhing to the music, lights dancing, glasses clinking and colours reflecting off the abstract paintings someone had carefully curated. A bubble of perfume, heavy and expensive, floated just outside the door. There, the smokers seemed to have congregated and the sickly sweet wafts were joined by the sharp stench of cigarette smoke.  He squinted to read the banner over the glass front, remembering that he had been meaning to make an appointment with the optician to talk about a prescription for glasses. Staring at computer screens and columns of numbers had become a physical headache of late and the more frustrated he got, the worse the pain became. Naturally. It also slowed him down significantly. 

He was not vain enough to care about whether or not glasses might ruin his looks - if they were practical, he would wear them. But for now he had to squint and approach the banner more closely than he would have liked.

_ Grand Opening - Abstracts of Florentine Life, Sponsored by the Medici Bank - Where Your Money Flourishes _

Francesco jerked back, as if bitten by a snake. If the Medici were responsible for this revel, he had better stay well clear of it. Turning his back on the lights and music, he remembered the words drilled into his mind.

_ Nothing good ever comes of the Medici. _

The voice in his head was never his own when he thought these thoughts, but the mantra had become ingrained into his very being. 

He hurried back to his small apartment, separate from his family’s grand house but close enough as not to spark any rumours within Florence’s tightly-knit gossip network. While he was unable to see his brother for most of the time, he could at least enjoy some privacy and the illusion of independence from his family and business.

Climbing the stairs to his flat two at a time, Francesco felt the leather bag swing painfully against the back of his thigh. It could not be helped. He raced up the steps every day, going as fast as he could on days such as this one when he had not found any time to go to the gym or run along the Arno in the early morning hours.

The silence that greeted him when he stepped into the dark apartment reminded him of the noise he had just passed. Loud bars or clubs were one thing, displays of wealth and splendour such as the gallery opening felt forced to him, no matter how much it pained him to admit that the people at the Medici-sponsored party had looked all but forced to revel and party. He let the darkness encompass him like a blanket. The rooms smelled clean, maybe a little dusty, but the decidedly empty surfaces of dark wood and metal made cleaning easy.  He could have walked through the rooms with his eyes closed, but the lights creeping in from the street lamps far below were more than sufficient to at least illuminate his living room. The large table took up most of the space. His unused sofa was pushed towards the wall on which a small TV was gathering the most dust. There were no plants because they would have died. Francesco dropped his bag on the dinner table, not usually used for anything besides work, and returned into the hallway, shedding his shoes and suit jacket on the way. The neatness with which he placed the left shoe perfectly aligned with the right one was as practised as his steps through the rooms and open doors.

He poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle on the kitchen counter and filled another one with water from the tap.

Having set both glasses down on the coasters in their usual spots, Francesco finally switched on the desk lamp he had clamped to the tabletop. Its bright white light stung his eyes while they got used to it but it was soon forgotten and his head bowed over the files he had brought home from work, the curls he had combed back and moussed so carefully that morning breaking free and falling into his eyes.

His phone vibrated once more.

_ At least stop working before midnight. _

Francesco smiled wryly. His brother meant well, he knew, but he also enjoyed a life without quarterly deadlines on his business accounts. Francesco rarely envied Guglielmo’s position as Human Resources Manager at a large retailer in the shopping district, but it worked out into very sociable hours, while Francesco routinely took work home when the office’s security guard locked the place at ten pm on the dot.

At least he was making the most of his waking hours, he thought, instead of wasting his family’s resources on throwing parties and sponsoring artists whose works would be forgotten once they left the walls of the gallery, disappearing into a private collection of a newly-rich idiot with too much money or in a heap in the artist’s studio, the unsold-and-rejected pile. Not that Francesco had ever even set foot into a painting studio or a gallery once his mandatory visits with his art class were cut short by his graduation. Being born and raised in Florence made you something of an art connoisseur, whether or not you actually wanted to.

When Francesco turned off the desk lamp and stumbled in the sudden darkness to rinse the glasses before going to sleep, he saw with a pang of guilt that the digital clock on the hob showed that it was well past midnight. While he slipped out of his shirt and tie and laid out his clothes for the next day, he contemplated texting Guglielmo, just to give a sign of life. But then his brother would know that he had been working late again and probably worry about his sleep patterns and god-knew-what. Francesco could do without his brother’s fussiness, especially now that his sleep rhythm was as messed up as ever. He remembered the advice people kept giving about eight hours of sleep a night, but those people did not have nearly as much work as him. And besides, he was just fine on less. Nothing Guglielmo should be concerning himself with, he decided. As he lay in the white sheets, the linen cool on his skin, Francesco felt the weight of his loneliness like a metal blanket over his body. Already drifting off, his mind struggled with the sudden clarity that he dreaded going to sleep right before succumbing to it.


	2. Chapter 2

The world is a strange faded tone, all colours muted and less intense, but somehow he never notices it while he is in the middle of it. He is back in his uncle’s house, the stone floor underneath his socks without a temperature, the light of the lamp in his room without warmth. The only sensation Francesco feels is the pounding of his heart, the racing of his blood through his body and the terror. He knows his breathing is too quick and too shallow. He knows that any second now, his uncle is going to push open the ancient wooden door to his room, the same look on his face he always wears when Francesco has messed up. Except that he does not know what exactly it is that he has done wrong. His mind races, he cannot remember. It might have been a broken glass in the sink, or the football that bounced of the wall of the courtyard, even though Francesco’s uncle has forbidden playing inside the house, which includes the open courtyard at its center. When Francesco protested that it is technically not inside if he plays in the courtyard, his uncle slapped him with the back of his hand. The ring his uncle always wears has left a small scar on his cheek, faded by now, but still visible whenever he looks for it.

The door opens, slowly, as if opened by a ghost . There is no sound, no creak even though Francesco remembers that this door has always, always creaked. He only knows to turn when it opens because of that sense of dread. Because he never hears him coming, yet he  _ knows  _ he is there. His uncle stands in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, angry. So angry. His face is a scowl, his eyes invisible under his furrowed brows, sunken back into the shadows of his skull.

“ You disappoint me,” he says. Francesco shrinks, his body small and frail, bony under his skin and lean muscle, nothing he could throw against his uncle’s rage to stop it.

Francesco still does not know what he has done wrong, but he knows better than to say it.

“ Turn.” 

He turns and hears that sound, feels it in every cell of his body and it makes the terror explode into bright white light. The soft rustle of the dry-cleaned shirtsleeve with the movement of the arms. The step backwards, to brace, with the click of the heel of the polished dress shoes. He hears the other sound then, the whooshing and clinking of the buckle was his uncle grasps the belt more tightly.

“ You are a Pazzi. Family is everything.”

And then he remembers the hot white pain, so loud and so intense that all his senses are overwhelmed with the metallic taste of it, the heat, the brightness, the hurt of the fire that spreads across his back. Has he even taken off his t-shirt? 

Francesco’s eyes flew open.  5:39 am, the red numbers on the black screen showed when he turned his head towards the otherwise barren night stand. Grey twilight fell through the windows. He was panting and drenched with sweat. Only when his breathing slowed and quieted did he hear the birdsong bouncing off the roofs and houses of Florence.

Francesco pushed himself up, sitting on the side of his bed, his naked feet touching the soft, cool floorboards. He pinched the bridge of his nose before rubbing at his face. He felt the sheen of sweat on his back cool in the early morning air. He had forgotten to close the window the previous night, but now he was grateful for the soft breeze. In spite of the smell of exhausts, bins and dust that old cities such as Florence held, the morning air blowing across the rooftops was fresh, somehow more clean than down below in the streets. A new day, with lots of air for development. And mistakes.

He stood, stretching his taut muscles in an attempt to ease out the kinks the nightmare, as always, had left.

On his way to his bathroom, Francesco paused to briefly glance into the small mirror hanging over a pine dresser. He looked like shit.

He did not bother with another look in the bathroom mirror, instead stripping out of his pants while running the water in the shower. The bathroom was steamed up by the time he ducked into the shower cabin and his skin flared up red under the scalding hot water.

Routinely, he washed himself and doused off the sweat. Where the shampoo ran down his back, his muscles tensing and flexing underneath his skin, lines criss-crossed each other all the way from the nape of his neck down to his narrow hips. He occasionally felt the scars, a phantom tautness whenever the weather changed, but he had almost forgotten the pain that had caused the welts and cuts to blemish his skin. If not for his nightmares, he might have been able to leave them behind entirely.

As always, the terror had left him by the time he had slipped into his clothes and walked over into the kitchen to make himself a cup of black coffee. Mostly empt shelves greeted him. It slowed his whirling mind, to be able to see the negative space between the objects. The sense of clarity and order calmed him. Still, he had all he needed and as not home enough to feel compelled to make his kitchen look more functional or used.  His mind was preoccupied once more with figures and numbers and quarters. With red and black sums on white paper.

Another might have been unable to face work after the nightmares that haunted him night after night, but Francesco’s grim determination drowned out the hurt and the memories. There was a numbness and a satisfaction to be found in numbers and business accounts that was better than any drug or therapy.

While he returned his paperwork to the leather satchel, Francesco remembered how he had returned from university, a young accountant, ready to begin his lifetime of work for his family’s bank. It had not occurred to him then that there were other businesses, other jobs he could have had. It was the Pazzi or none. 

He was good at his job, even with the occasional blip, and he was determined to make his family proud. Or those that were left of it. 

After his parents’ death - he had been seven years old, Guglielmo fifteen, and Francesco had not been able to understand that Mamma and Pappa would not return from their business trip - they had been raised by their uncle, in their family palazzo. Guglielmo had managed to move out at eighteen in order to go to university in Bologna, but Francesco had stayed for twelve years. He could not call them miserable, since he had known little else, but he knew that they had not exactly been joyful either. He had had many a nightmare about his parents and Guglielmo had always been there - until he had not. Then his uncle had taught him not to wake screaming and crying but to bear it like a man. At ten years old, Francesco had wanted very much to be a man and so he had taken his uncle’s lessons very seriously.

Francesco also reasoned, even at that early age, that him taking the brunt of their uncle’s flaring temper would save Guglielmo from having to suffer from it. In a way, his brother moving to Bologna had made Francesco the responsible one out of the two of them. He had decided that Guglielmo had taken good care of him and that it was now his own turn to take care of his older brother. He would not admit to it, but he had not stopped since.

Filling the role Guglielmo had been supposed to take on in the family business had been but a small step in the large plan of gently but decidedly pushing his brother out of the picture so he could stand on his own feet and live a life free from the bonds a name such as Pazzi put on its bearers.

Francesco closed the door to his apartment behind him and flew down the stairs,  the heels of his shoes clacking on the worn steps. It was late enough for his neighbours to bustle about in their own apartments, children protesting against their school outfits and elderly couples bickering over meaningless little things.

He did not miss being part of a family. After all, a small child’s memory could not be trusted. He knew that the memories he had of his parents were tinted. He had grown up and meant to bring honour to his name, that was all that counted. He sometimes wondered if other people might consider it odd that while he feared his uncle, he also strove to satisfy him with his work. There were small issues in the accounts, increasingly so, and Francesco had once confronted his uncle about them. Being the senior leader of the bank, his uncle had shut down his concerns, instead demanding he do his job properly to smooth out the bumps in the books. He was the accountant, he was not supposed to flag any issues other than outstanding payments that were beyond late and had to be collected with due force. Francesco did not know how his uncle made sure all debts were paid, but they definitely were, if the accounts were true. And of that he was sure. Because it was his job to be.

There was not a single cloud in the morning sky, the day threatening to become unseasonably hot already. Francesco hurried to the office, which he knew would open at quarter to eight, only stopping briefly to down an espresso and a pastry at the bakery on the corner, near the duomo. When he passed the gallery where the party had raged the night before, he glanced briefly at the locked and shuttered front. No drunks, no rubbish. At least they seemed to have tidied up after themselves. In fact, had he not passed the night before and witnessed the whole affair, it might have just been another dream of his. But the banner was still there, as was a faint air of sweat, booze and glitter.

By the time Francesco arrived at his desk and unclasped his bag to retrieve the files he had been pouring over the night before, the streets of Florence were filled with smells and noise, the first coaches full of tourists dropping off their loads near the Palazzo Vecchio. In contrast to the warm summer air, the marble hallways of the Pazzi bank smelled clean, almost sterile, but with an undercurrent of dust and cold sweat. In the cool room with the metal-grilled window, Francesco was in a blissful alternate universe of facts and figures, the dream and the horrors of the night no longer on his mind. He had the quarter’s accounts to close and he sure was going to try and do it as quickly as possible. His uncle expected them on his desk the next morning and there were many hours of work left to do.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a mistake in the books and it drove Francesco crazy not to be able to find it. The numbers simply did not add up. Resisting the urge to run his hands through his carefully gelled hair, he saved the spreadsheet and the accounting file before locking his computer. Many hours’ worth of work had been lost the previous year when the computer had crashed during a meeting. Francesco had worn a nice black eye for it when his uncle had found out. Of course, a grown man did not simply get beat up by his uncle, so he had claimed to have run into a post while jogging in the dark. It had not helped his reputation as being clumsy. But neither had the bruises, so there was that. At least his uncle seemed to have realised that visible reminders of Francesco’s failures only attracted unwanted attention. It had since become all about sneakiness. And Francesco had taken weeks to remind himself that this was worth it, both the pain whenever anything so much as touched his face and the humiliation of the scrutiny and judgemental looks he kept receiving. After all, Guglielmo did not have to nurse any welts or cuts. It was all he could do, so he would do it proudly and without uttering a word. Jacopo had at least apologised and replaced the computer, in a futile attempt at preventing another incident like it.

Francesco left the office and stepped out into the heat. At noon, the streets were buzzing with tourists and locals alike, all in search of a bite to eat and some shade to stay cool in. The numbers would still be there after his lunch break and he had made it a habit to escape the confinement of the office for some daylight every now and then, even if his pale skin meant that he had nothing to show for it. Apart from a few more freckles, that was. He had also begun to feel slightly light-headed and nauseous from staring at the screen of his computer for hours on end, so he meant to give his eyes a break and his body some much needed fuel to power through the rest of the day – or until he had finally finished those accounts. 

Francesco was so lost in thought, that a scowl must have replaced the impassive expression he normally wore, which brought a few confused stares upon him from passers-by. The regulars in the little osteria in a quiet alley off the beaten tourist tracks knew better than to approach him. The Pazzi, while long-established and of some wealth - former, if not present - were not exactly known for their amicability. Guglielmo, of course, being the grand exception. But people knew better than to exchange more than a few words with Francesco if it could not absolutely be avoided. They preferred to leave him be instead, except for the glances and stared he pretended not to notice. He preferred to be left alone, so he never showed how much notice he took of the judgements people so easily passed over him.

He ordered his usual sandwich and the owner, Giacomo, had it ready within minutes. While Francesco sat at a small solitary table in a corner of the room, he fished his phone from his pocket and looked at the lock screen. There were a few new messages from Guglielmo, nothing serious, as well as a reminder to make an appointment with the optician. Francesco sighed. That would have to wait until this account business was finally sorted.

_ It’s too warm today. _

_ Are you alive? _

_ Did you have lunch? _ Guglielmo had texted. Francesco looked at his half-eaten sandwich.

_ I am in the middle of it. _

It did not take more than a minute until Guglielmo’s reply made his phone vibrate in his hand.

_ A miracle! _

Francesco huffed quietly.

_ No need to be sarcastic. _

Guglielmo was not exactly motherly, but he did seem to be obsessed with making sure that his younger brother functioned like a normal human being. To Guglielmo, this meant regular, nutritious meals, time spent with friends and on non-work activities, as well as regular contact with one's family. By which he meant himself. A lost cause, as Francesco kept humorously reminding him. 

While Guglielmo had his nice job at HR, Francesco often thought that two brothers could not live in more opposite worlds. Bright neon lights and carpet floors with group offices for Guglielmo and marble, old rickety desks and small solitary confinement for Francesco.

_ Can we meet soon? I know you are busy this week, so maybe next week? _

While Guglielmo was not involved in the Pazzi bank's business, he was still remarkably well-informed about Francesco’s job. Francesco sometimes entertained the thought that his brother, much like his uncle, operated a network of informants throughout strategically important places in Florence. But at least where Guglielmo was concerned, this was ridiculous. He was good-natured and always seemed to be able to see the best in people. Francesco admired that quality, but he also knew that it would be detrimental if he allowed himself to soften in any similar fashion. It did, however, make him proud of his brother and his accomplishments. One had to know people and how to handle them to rise as quickly within the ranks as Guglielmo had. It would simply have been impossible for him to blossom as much had he ever worked for their uncle.

_ Maybe. Can I come back to you about it? _

Francesco hated having to be vague about meeting Guglielmo. He knew that the following week, his uncle would likely find another herculean task for him to fulfil. Owners of family-run businesses did not have spare time, his uncle used to say to excuse his usurping of Francesco’s every waking hour. Francesco, after several attempts at resistance and stolen minutes, had learned to take a similar approach. 

_ Can you not, for once in your life, take some precious time off work? He does not own you, you know? You have a right to free time and happiness and fun. _

Francesco felt a pang in his chest. It hit him every time his brother naively suggested that Francesco was deserving of anything other than he already had. Francesco loved his brother for it, yet he knew that this was as good as it would get. Some might have considered it pathetic, but he was accepting of the price he paid to ensure Guglielmo's freedom.

His lunch break was over. Francesco stuffed his phone back into his pocket without replying. He promised himself that he would later in the evening, once he had finished work and was out of his uncle’s reach for the night. The day, as badly as it was currently going, would eventually end. 

He did not dare spend much time on his phone, even in his office, because someone was likely to burst in at any time. And that someone was usually his uncle.

The first time he had been caught texting Guglielmo while at work, his uncle had sent out his secretary with a sweet smile, asking her to close the door behind her because they had some family matters to discuss. He did not want to be interrupted. What had followed had taken a strangely disembodied quality in his memory.

“ You will not. Ever. Text. While you are at work,” his uncle had pressed through his teeth, staring down at Francesco from behind his desk. Francesco, still sat in the uncomfortably low leather chair opposite had tried to shrink, hoping the ground would open up to swallow him.

“ I’m sorry,” he had croaked, his voice failing him as it usually did in situations such as this. Returning from university, he had been hoping that his relationship with his uncle might be improved by his newly won status as an adult and employee. It had not, as he had quickly come to learn. On the contrary. Now, more than ever, there was nowhere for him to hide.

“ Sorry won’t do,” his uncle had said. The calm in his voice had frightened Francesco. “Hand me your phone.”

Francesco’s hand had actually trembled then.

His uncle’s face had twisted into a mocking grimace at the sight of Guglielmo’s message. 

“ You will not tell him about your work. You will not see him. Don’t you think I could destroy his career, just as I could yours? There are things you don’t know about your brother. It would be a shame to reveal them, don’t you think? Poor Guglielmo would never be able to find work. And I would have to employ him. Except he’s no good at anything.” His uncle had smiled then. “I know your little game. Play as much as you like. You are mine.”

Francesco had hung his head, unable to hold his uncle’s stare any longer. No smile of his ever reached his cold eyes.

His uncle had walked around the desk to stand next to him. He had gripped his chin and forced him to look up at him from where he sat.

“ You know I control everything around here. Your money. Your job. Your whole life is in my hands. I could report you for fraud, no issue. I could stop paying you. How would you like living on the street? Without me, you’d never have found a job. Nobody wants to employ someone like you. You should thank me. Not text your useless brother during a meeting.”

His uncle had let go of him, kicking his legs with his smart black leather shoes. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to bruise.

“ You will leave your phone in your bag. It will be turned off the minute you set foot in this building. I will come and check it. You will work. And you will do as I say. Understood?”

Francesco had nodded. His eyes had been hot, a reminder of the tears he had learned not to spill during his years in his uncle’s house. The Palazzo had never been his home, not truly. It had always belonged to his uncle. The place he would forever refer to as home had been lost when his parents had died. To the costs of their funeral. To the clothe and feed him and his brother. But in his heart, he kept the memory of the only secure and happy place he had ever known.

Francesco sat at his desk, his eyes already tired from the morning’s hours of work. But he pressed on. There was something amiss with the monthly sums. If only he could find it. He would have to ask his uncle. There was no other way. While Francesco had grown to be his uncle’s height, he was still physically inferior, more lean muscle and narrow frame than bulky strength. If he approached the topic sensibly, he might just get out of it in once piece. He had the meeting with Guglielmo to look forward to. And there was no way he would risk a black eye this time. Nothing to make his brother suspicious of anything other than Francesco’s obsession with work. And what good an excuse it was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birhday to the one and only Mr M.

The door to his uncle’s office radiated coldness. Of course, Francesco knew that, rationally seen, it did not, but he thought it did anyway. The dark wood, albeit polished to a shine, looked worn. Wood should have been a warm contrast to the marble floor, but it failed to produce any warmth whatsoever. In another century this office surely would have been located in a dungeon or a spooky tower. As it was, there was daylight from other open office doors along the corridor and neon lights and cold marble floors, reminders of the bank’s glorious past.

Francesco stopped chewing the inside of his mouth and knocked. For a second, the urge to turn his back to the door and walk away was overwhelming, but then his uncle's voice called him inside and he ignored it, the same way he always did. His lip was bleeding a little, torn open from the twisting and chewing, his teeth leaving the skin fragile and scarred.

“ Sorry to disturb you, uncle,” Francesco said and stood next to the low chair in front of his uncle’s desk. It was only about hip height, but so massive that it towered, like a panther poised to pounce. It was cold and smelled faintly of bitter cologne, but there was not a speck of dust in sight.

“ What is it?”

“ There is an issue with the numbers.”

“ You mean they are too low? I would love to know how the bloody Medici make a profit while we scrape by.” His uncle barked a laugh. Their biggest rivals, the Medici, were his favourite topic. More specifically, how much he despised them. Francesco never dared to ask why, but from what he had gathered, their families’ rivalry outdated most of modern Florence’s influential families by a few centuries.

Francesco bit his lip. He sucked on it a little, an ill-concealed attempt at preventing the blood from showing.

“ No, that’s not it. At least,” he cleared his throat. “That’s not what flagged up in the system.”

He handed a sheet of numbers from the file across the desk so his uncle could make himself familiar with the details. He had even highlighted the rows in question. A slight tremor shook the pages.

“ There are irregular sums that are unaccounted for. We don’t have any record of any of them.”

His uncle glanced at the paper and then locked eyes with Francesco, his gaze cool and impassive.

“ I have authorised them. Fix it. You don’t need any paperwork.”

Francesco was startled. He had been asked to smooth over smaller issues before, but this?

“ It’s quite a significant amount,” he said,  Shifting his weight from one foot to the other . “I don’t think-”

“ You are not employed to think,” his uncle barked. “You are here to make the books even out. So do your job.”

“ But it’s wrong.”

“ You have never once complained in the past. I still have all the records. If you don’t keep it up, you’ll be the one who goes to jail for this.” His uncle leaned forwards, a smile playing on his lips. Francesco could see the circles under his eyes and the shadow of his beard. He hung his head before his uncle could take any further offence. “You do as you are told. That’s why I pay you. The Pazzi won’t go bankrupt. I will not allow it.”

“ If we shifted a few assets and split the shares, we might be able to-” Francesco tried, but his uncle cut him off.

“ I run the business. I know what is best and what isn’t. You might have learned all those fancy things that people like the Medici seem to be buying into these days, but they won’t last.”

“ It’s not about the Medici,” Francesco said but knew immediately that it had been the wrong thing to say.

“ I have raised you and your brother, even though you could have just as well gone into foster care. I never asked for anything but your loyalty in return.” Francesco’s uncle leaned back in his seat, absent-mindedly cracking his knuckles. “If you question my authority, feel free to leave. Just remember that you are mine. You are a Pazzi. Nobody wants you out there. This is the only place where you are welcome.”

Francesco swallowed any words of protest. His uncle was right, of course. His very name barred most doors. People still trusted the Pazzi bank, but they would never trust the orphan, the stray, Jacopo Pazzi had taken under his wing and raised as his own. He was a charity case, at best, and a pariah at worst. Guglielmo had his hard work and short time in his uncle’s care to thank for his independence. And maybe Francesco’s silent sacrifice. But he would never hold that against his brother. Francesco found himself fighting the urge to suck on his lip until he tasted the blood, sweet and metallic.

“ Now go. I have actual work to do.”

Francesco left the office, shoulders rounded and looking every bit the part of the kicked dog. Before any of the other employees could see him in this sorry state, however, he straightened up, smoothed his face into its impassive mask and strode quickly down the corridor and back into his own office.

He knew that what his uncle was asking of him was entirely illegal, yet what was he to do about it? He barely understood how the Medici managed to stay afloat with so many new competitors out there. No wonder his uncle was stressed and overworked his employees. The Medici. Francesco felt the instant boiling of his blood at the mere thought. How one family could bask in such wealth and waste it so freely on art and useless things like statues and parks was beyond his understanding.

It had been the second lesson he had been taught by his uncle. The Medici are out there to get you. They are bad. We are good. You are a Pazzi, bring honour to your family and defend your name.

Francesco had still dared to question that command as a boy, making a point of befriending Lorenzo Medici in school and frankly enjoying the other boy’s company. It had been a great relief from the sadness and constant pressure his parents’ deaths and his subsequent adoption by his uncle had brought upon him.

His uncle had been beyond furious when he had found out. He had shown up in the Medici Palazzo, of all places, in the middle of the day and physically dragged Francesco out of it. Francesco, even at eight years old, had been humiliated by it. It had also been followed by the first real beating he had ever received. He still bore the marks of it on his back.

Francesco plumped down in his desk chair and rubbed the palm of his hand across his face. It was so illegal. So utterly illegal. But his uncle was right, of course, there was nothing to be done about it. He had to do it.

He unlocked his computer screen and went to work , his teeth worrying away at a dead piece of skin inside his cheek he had discovered by chance.  Maybe, one day, he would be able to walk out of this building in the knowledge that it was the last time. And if it was the last day of his life on Earth, he was looking forward to it.

Sometimes, Francesco daydreamed about quitting, about taking his small savings and buying a cabin in the countryside, or maybe the mountains, and earning a living by working as a farm hand or maybe a hermit, fully self-sufficient. Of course he lacked the skills for either of those things, but the daydreams were comforting. The only issue was that they distracted him from his work.

Francesco sighed. He should have had another espresso after lunch. But there was nothing to be done about it now. He ran a glass of water from the tap in the bathroom and spent the rest of the day fixing numbers to hide his uncle’s illegal activities. If this was what it took to save their family’s business, it was what he had to do. Following his uncle’s orders usually proved to be the simple way out, even if it entangled him further in the web of deceit and lies and fraud.


	5. Chapter 5

Francesco ordered another beer, hunching over the polished wood of the bar on his elbows. He had decided to at least get well tipsy in return for finishing the accounts just in time. Smoothing over all the issues had been excruciating and he had sworn himself not to let his uncle get away with it again. Of course, the next time it would come to it, he would just give in. He always did.

His phone buzzed in his pocket just as the bartender placed the glass on the beer mat in front of him. Francesco fumbled for the cash he owed and raised an eyebrow when the bartender told him that it was already paid for. He nodded in the direction of a dark haired woman, her curls falling over naked shoulders and onto a low-cut black top. Classy, suitable for business and very, very sexy. Francesco picked up the glass and toasted in her direction. The woman smiled, showing perfectly white teeth that seemed to glow in the dim light of the bar. She was older than him. More mature and worldly, but it did not bother him. On the contrary. It was not that older women expected less. They were more sure of what they wanted. He could let them take the lead and shower them in attention he normally held back.

Francesco ignored his phone and wandered over to her, counting himself lucky that he could still walk, even without having had much of a substantial meal since lunch. He knew he was being lured in, but he did not care. On the rare occasions he did let loose, he wanted to go all out on it.

“ Thank you for the beer,” he said when he reached the woman.

“ Can I get you something?”

She smiled but shook her head. The smell of her hair wafted towards him. Flowers and hairspray, heavy, mature yet also unquestionably feminine. 

“ You could have a seat,” she said and Francesco obliged.

He knew how these things worked, as did she. They exchanged a few polite words, teasingly testing each other, before she decided that her place was closer - in the opposite direction to his - and they left the bar, kissing as soon as they reached her doorstep.

Francesco had had many an encounter such as this over the years. The women always seemed to be older, more mature, but not exactly motherly. And they enjoyed his attentions, his company and his skill. It was a transaction in which both parties got what they wanted and parted ways immediately afterwards without any hard feelings.

He made sure the lights stayed off, the light of the street lamp the only illumination in her apartment. She had taste, that much was for certain. Many of the shapes he could discern in the dimness were pictures and sleek furniture. Modern, cool, chic, yet understated. Much like herself. Francesco valued a person that took so much care in her appearance and the way she wanted to be perceived. Well put together, that was what she tried to signal to the world. It was not up to him to question it, so he did not.

“ You remind me of Skye,” the naked woman said, turning to look at Francesco. He froze, his shirt half buttoned. She propped her chin on the palm of her hand, drinking in the muscular front of his torso with her eyes, tracing the invisible lines her hands and mouth had left earlier. Francesco’s skin looked more tan in the yellow light of the street lamp outside.

“ Skye?” He slipped his long legs into his suit trousers and pulled them on. 

“ I told you,” the woman said with a satisfied giggle. Francesco had not asked for her name. Neither had she asked for his. “I spent some time in Scotland. The Isle of Skye is … rough. Cold. Beautiful. It’s harsh and all the colours are darker. The cliffs are as rough as the sea that beats against them, the wind cuts and pulls on you. It’s a miracle how anything can survive or even thrive on it.” 

Francesco finished buttoning his shirt. A cool shiver ran down his spine. So she got poetic afterwards.

“ What does that have to do with me?”

The woman dropped back onto her pillow.

“ You are so cool and smooth, so sharp and forceful. So beautiful. But life isn’t easy, is it?”

He shrank away under her imploring stare, shrugging her words off while remembering her soft fingertips caressing his back before digging into his skin as she held onto him. He only noticed that he had begun to bite his lip when the taste of blood replaced that of her lips and her body in his mouth. Had he let himself go too much? Revealed too much without intending to do so?

“ You could stay, you know,” she purred. “But you never do.”

They both knew the dance too well.

Francesco picked up his shoes, at a loss for words. The woman did not expect an answer. She turned and pulled to covers over her naked form.

“ Close the door on your way out, would you?”

The yellow light sparkled off the silver stands in her hair. Francesco had barely noticed them. He did as he was bid, pulling his shoes over his cold feet in the darkness of the stairwell. The marble floor was refreshingly solid and cool under the soles of his feet. While the brief encounter had taken his mind off his troubles, they now returned and hit him with full force as he made his solitary way through the deserted streets of sleeping Florence.

He remembered his phone, heavy in his pocket, and pulled it out. A text from Guglielmo.

_ Seriously. Can we meet? I have things to discuss with you. _

Francesco paused in his tracks. Guglielmo was rarely this serious. Not caring about the time of night, he typed a reply before continuing his way home.

_ Too busy at the bank. Next week. I promise. _

The reply was immediate, as if his brother had anticipated what he would say.

_ You are too good for this. I can’t believe you still put up with him. You shouldn’t be this involved with anything. Let alone work. _

Francesco sighed quietly. He would never tell Guglielmo how much he did not deserve this. His work was all he had, apart of course from Guglielmo. But if he stopped working, it would ruin his older brother’s life, of that he was certain.

Guglielmo, with his uncanny ability to see the best in people, even in Francesco, had always clashed with their uncle. They had fought epic fights in the three years Guglielmo had stayed in the Pazzi Palazzo, Jacopo never daring to actually lay a hand on his opinionated nephew. Francesco had borne the brunt of it afterwards. He admired Guglielmo, his strength to withstand their uncle’s controlling and manipulative behaviour. Francesco occasionally remembered how Jacopo twisted what he knew about people to use it against them, yet he fell for it over and over and over again. Guglielmo seemed to be immune, at least as far as his uncle’s threats had been concerned. 

Since Guglielmo’s moving out, Francesco had tried to shield his older brother from their uncle’s schemes and thirst for power. He considered himself successful in this one thing, if not in much else.

Guglielmo thought his uncle to be bad-tempered and manipulative. But he did not know about the blackmail and violence and abuse. And Francesco would do anything for it to stay that way.

_ I’m fine. See you next week. _


	6. Chapter 6

“ You bring shame to the name of Pazzi! You are twisted and wrong and utterly useless!”

His uncle’s voice echoed in Francesco’s mind long after his tired body had shot up from yet another nightmare. It rang in his ears while he stood in the shower, water rushing down his neck and back, rinsing off the sheen of sweat and misery. He purposefully dug his teeth into the fragile skin of his bottom lip, hard.

On top of the pressure his uncle was putting on him, he had begun to feel increasingly bad about pushing Guglielmo away time after time. All week, Francesco had felt as if his uncle knew more than he did, constantly averting his focus and clogging up all of his spare time with work that, arguably, could have waited another week or two. Francesco also still felt pangs of guilt about the false numbers, but he tried his best to ban these kinds of thoughts from his mind. It was done, what else was there to be done about it?

_ You are coming today, right? _

It was the question that hurt the most, Francesco thought while he waited for his coffee to boil. It was Sunday, his one day off, and they had decided to meet for lunch. But with all of the excuses and declines Francesco had retorted all of Guglielmo’s previous attempts, it was no wonder that the older of the two brothers had begun to lose faith in there ever being a meeting. He did have a more dramatic streak on the rare occasion that his good will was being too noticeably exploited. Remembering a very immature tantrum Guglielmo had thrown on a rare break from his studies in Bologna, Francesco smiled and shook his head. His hair, for once not confined by product and meticulous attention, swung back from where he had loosely combed it back. It fell into his eyes and Francesco added a haircut to the list of things he never seemed to get around to doing. Such as the glasses. And fixing the dripping tap in his kitchen.

Francesco poured his coffee into the only mug he possessed and picked up his phone from the counter.

_ Of course I’ll be there.  _

Guglielmo was sat at their usual table, foot bobbing up and down, his fingers, long and slender just as Francesco’s, playing with the frilly paper napkin his glass of orange juice was stood on.

“ Orange juice and ice cream?” Francesco teased as he sat down opposite his brother.

Guglielmo, grinning from ear to ear, cupped a protective arm around his large assortment of ice cream and the juice.

“ Just because you are into bland flavours does not mean the rest of us have to miss out on the fruity joys of life,” he said.

“ A sandwich and a coffee, please,” Francesco ordered from the waiter who had approached him, notepad pressed to his chest. He could not be much older than eighteen, Francesco reflected. It made him feel ancient.

Guglielmo licked his spoon clean and placed it onto the bowl that had previously held the ice cream selection. He had always been able to eat an obscene amount of unhealthy things. Unlike Francesco, he did not put weight on easily, so he absolutely managed to get away with it. Francesco remembered their mother calling him hoover in jest on more than one occasion. Francesco on the other hand had been chubby. It was due to his exercise regimen and general forgetfulness or distraction that he was now wiry and lean. It made them more similar in stature than they had ever been.

“ What are the news?” He bit into his panino, the taste reminding him that this was, in fact, his breakfast. He should maybe take care to eat more regularly, he reflected. That might make the difference between his gaunt face and Guglielmo’s chiselled one. 

“ So, I know I have kept this a secret for quite some time, so please don’t be upset with me,” his brother began.

Francesco raised an eyebrow.

“ Did you rob a bank?”

Guglielmo snorted and nearly knocked over his glass.

“ How- Why does your brain not function normally?” he sputtered. Francesco simply smiled and shrugged.

“ That’s not it,” he continued once he had calmed down enough to be able to talk coherently and sotto voce. “I feel a bit shit for not telling you about this earlier, but I met someone.”

Francesco’s jaw dropped. Of all the things, this was the most unexpected. Guglielmo had kept a secret from him - an enormous one - and he had never in his wildest dreams guessed that it was, in fact, a relationship.

“ Congratulations?”

“ The thing is, I proposed to her last week and-” Guglielmo’s smile lit up the entire neighbourhood, “she said Yes!”

“ Wow. I mean. That’s. Congratulations!” Francesco had not struggled to express himself this much outside of his office since probably kindergarten. “Who is the lucky lady?”

Guglielmo bit his lip . Was he blushing?

“ Guglielmo? Come on, spit it out.”

Francesco leaned over the table, eyes fixed on his brother’s guilty expression.

“ No. Please, don’t tell me you-”

“ It’s Bianca. Bianca Medici, Lorenzo’s-”

“ -sister.” Francesco leaned back, all air rushing out of his lungs as if he had been thrown against a wall. 

“ I know the whole family feud and bla bla, but can’t we just leave it in the past? I love Bianca, she’s wonderful, she is kind and loving and absolutely hilarious. You should meet her, maybe even before the engagement party.”

“ Engagement party?” Francesco nearly shouted.

Guglielmo looked sheepish. 

“ It’s next Saturday evening. I- I was hoping you could make it. Seeing as you’re my best man and all.”

Francesco rubbed a hand across his face, feeling weary all of a sudden.

“ If he finds out,” he began, unable to continue.

“ Oh so what?” Guglielmo’s temper flared. “I love Bianca. I am no longer dependent on his opinion or good will. He’ll learn about it sooner or later. There will be an announcement in the papers and of course people gossip, but I do not care.”

He leaned forward, his face deadly serious.

“ She is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Francesco was quiet for a long moment. Of all the things whirling through his head, the panic about what his uncle might have to say about this involvement with the Medici prevailed over his happiness for his brother. It bothered him, being unable to feel truly happy for Guglielmo. And that helped him make up his mind.

“ Of course I’ll be there,” Francesco said.

Guglielmo looked relieved.

“ Just- don’t expect any speeches.”

“ Don’t worry,” Guglielmo laughed. “You can stay in your little corner nearest to the door. Just- be there. You are my family and I want you to get along with my wife. I mean, she’s wonderful, so I doubt you’ll need much convincing.”

Francesco’s heart contracted painfully at the sight of Guglielmo’s utter happiness.

“ I’m sure she’s wonderful.”

“ Will you be bringing anyone special?” Guglielmo asked as nonchalantly as his smugness allowed.

Francesco shook his head. They had played this game time after time ever since he had moved out of his uncle’s palazzo.

Guglielmo shrugged. “You’re coming. That’s all I need. I’m really sorry I didn’t ask you first, but she just-” He looked lost in a happy memory.

“ Congratulations. Tell her I look forward to meeting her.”

Francesco took care of the bill and got up.

“ I have some errands to run,” Guglielmo confessed.

“ Don’t worry. I will be busy during the week. Just text me where and when. And what the dresscode is.”

Knowing the Medici, Francesco would not get away with dressing down from his usual suit and tie, but he did not want to risk anything.

“ Sure.” Guglielmo practically bounced on his feet where they stood outside the bar. “Saturday, eight o’clock at the Medici Palazzo. I’ll text you the details.”

He was off before Francesco could get in another word, the spring in his step as he walked down the street plainly visible. He stood out, not just because of his height, but because of the happiness that radiated from him.

“ The Palazzo,” Francesco murmured. His mouth was dry all of a sudden. He had not set foot inside it since that day Jacopo had pulled him out onto the street, cursing at him and the Medici family. Actually, if he was honest with himself, he was outright avoiding the building. The thought, the mere sight of it, brought back a flood of memories, tastes, smells, feelings. He preferred that flood safely compartmentalised and stowed away.

What had Guglielmo gotten himself involved with now. Or rather who. Francesco straightened his shoulders and set off back to his apartment. He knew exactly who. And he did not look forward to spending an entire evening having to witness the Medici family’s extravagance and exuberance. He would probably rather hang himself. But anything for Guglielmo. That was how it had always been. Keeping his brother's dreams and adventures his secret, making excuses for his absence. Stepping up and being the sole focus of their uncle's notoriously bad temper had come naturally to him. Jacopo had often taunted him for the childish worship he had for his older brother. And now this.

He just had to keep it from his uncle for as long as he could. And he would have to make sure Guglielmo was unavailable once the news was actually broken to Jacopo. His rage would be like nothing they had ever seen, Francesco was certain of it.


	7. Chapter 7

Guglielmo had joined the cast of Francesco’s nightmares. He lingered in the background, tentative as if wanting to help Francesco but somehow unable to do anything other than observe. His uncle had changed, too. He used Guglielmo more than ever for his threats, so it was no longer a question of what it was that Francesco had done wrong, but one of how he could save Guglielmo, who did not leave, as much as he yelled at him to leave him behind and just go away. On Monday morning, Francesco woke with such a start that the racing of his heart and the rushing of his blood in his ears drowned out the birdsong and the early morning noises that usually filtered into the apartment like wafts of reality. 

Francesco had spent the remainder of the weekend pondering over the implications Guglielmo’s engagement with Bianca Medici had on him. His exposure to his uncle’s influence and temper meant that he would have to be extra careful in the coming weeks and months. Jacopo would be furious once he found out, he had little doubt about it. If the phone incident was not warning enough, more recent sackings over trivial matters were, such as the one where Giorgio, an apprentice, had been caught smoking out the back while sensitive documents were in the printer tray for anyone to see or take. It had been his first offence, yet Jacopo's fury had made the walls tremble. His fury was what the people feared even more than his ruthlessness or cold heart. And they were right to do so.

Once, only once, his mind had wandered off into the sepia-toned memories from before, back to the way his world had been when his parents had still been alive and he had lived with them in their flat at the other end of the city. All of the memories, fractions of scenes mostly, were tinted with what he considered to be the naive view of a child on a wholesome and perfect world. Now, as an adult, these memories could no longer be trusted and so he spent much time blocking them out.

He had remembered, for instance, how his mother had taken him to play with some other kids his age, maybe on a playground, maybe in some other family’s garden, he was no longer sure. He must have been about four of five years old, Francesco could not say for certain. He remembered Lorenzo there and his sister, Bianca, as well as their younger brother Giuliano, still a toddler. The Medici children had welcomed him into their ranks back then, as a playmate, since their mothers had frequently visited each other. Francesco thought they might have been friends or simply met in some function as young mothers and stayed in touch. 

The fact was that he had definitely been on friendly terms with Bianca’s family once upon a time, as had Guglielmo. The time in Bologna and the separation from the Medici must have let Guglielmo’s fondness for the only Medici daughter grow significantly and without reservations. It was good for his brother, Francesco thought. It just put him in the awkward position of having to balance his love for his brother and his desire to see him happy with the family feud his uncle insisted was still very much alive.

At work, his uncle was only slightly more morose than usual. Francesco gathered that no news about Guglielmo’s engagement had reached him yet. He would be sure to know once it did. This was, of course, not the first thing he had ever hidden from his uncle. The very first thing, his friendship with Lorenzo, had been uncovered in due time and punished. Then there had been the small collection of things, trinkets really, he had kept of his parents. Most of these Jacopo had never found, luckily, because they were the only ties Francesco had to his past.

“ You will pack your things and leave within the hour. I will not have laziness in my business!” 

His uncle’s voice boomed down the corridor, the small form of the frightened, just recently sacked, employee cowering before him. Francesco knew better than to stick his head out of his door more than a few centimetres. Instead, he left the door open just a crack and stood behind it, chewing the inside of his cheek and listening with concentration and not a small amount of guilt.  Onlookers seldomly got away with gawking. With a pang, Francesco identified the man as Umberto, one of the other accountants, of lesser importance where he was concerned, but vital to help him cope with the amount of work he had to do regardless of rank and status. Francesco suppressed a curse. 

He had known that the man had barely scraped by on the meagre salary and the enormous workload. He had also taken the important accounts off him, both to relieve some of the pressure and to take all the questionable business into his own hands. If his uncle wanted to break the law, the only people who should involve themselves in it were his family, or so he had thought. Apparently not even that had saved the poor man.

“ And don’t you dare speak outside of this building about our business. You have signed agreements and I have the right to withhold payments and references should you not comply. I doubt you can afford that lawsuit, so don't even try.” 

Every few months, someone was publicly sacked. It was unfortunate and painful, but it had never directly affected Francesco’s work. Now he considered intervening on the accountant’s behalf. Before he could set a foot outside his door, however, he remembered that he was to keep a low profile for a while and that openly defying his uncle would most certainly lead to an even bigger catastrophe.

When the man, shoulders hunched and pale, trudged past Francesco’s office on his walk of shame to clear his desk, Francesco hid behind the closed door, pretending not to be in or even alive. He could not look the man in the face after his own uncle had just destroyed his life and his career. If he remembered correctly, the man had a young daughter - there had been a framed picture on his small, cluttered desk. All Francesco could do was stay where he was, frozen in his chair, not daring to make a sound until the normal sounds of the office returned outside and his heart had somehow found a more steady rhythm in his chest. He even forgot to breathe, hands clamped to the edge of the desk, his knuckles white under his stretched skin.

When his uncle marched into his office just after lunch, all Francesco could do not to flinch or jump was strain his face into an impassive mask.

“ Those god-damn Medici have taken the Strozzi account off us. And this fool did nothing to stop them,” he said instead of a greeting.

Francesco met his gaze, as levelled as he could, and waited for further instructions.

“ You need to have a word. They set up the account with your father, back in the day, so the family name has to pull us out of this mess.”

The Strozzi were an old Florentine family, and rich, so the small account of profits from shares in several businesses had given the Pazzi many a boost for their own trade. Much of their liquidity rested on its revenue. No wonder Jacopo was positively fuming.

“ I will set up a meeting with the heir. I think he is the most reasonable out of the lot.” Francesco reached for his diary and his phone.

His uncle nodded. Francesco wondered if that had been it, but his uncle stayed where he was, so there would be more where this had come from.

“ You will do Umberto’s share of work. He messed this up, so you fix it. If I remember correctly, he also answered to you. So you failed the business by not preventing the Strozzi from taking their account to the Medici. You are too lax with your colleagues.”

Francesco braced himself, but the punch never came. Maybe his uncle was in a favourable mood after the dressing down he had given the accountant, maybe there was something else on his mind. Francesco simply nodded, stone-faced, and waited until his uncle had banged the door to his office shut behind himself until he dialled the number to contact the young Strozzi, a rash but business-savvy man in his thirties. Francesco was his junior, but he knew that he looked older and often used it as an advantage. He should have known better than to think this day would pass him by without piling more work and catastrophic news onto his plate. With a sigh, he waited for the dial tone and the smooth voice at the other end.  He tasted blood on his lip and swallowed quickly. The taste made his stomach lurch and his skin seemed in shreds.  Dealing with such important clients was like walking a tightrope, underneath his feet a chasm in which his uncle waited, knife in hand, for him to make one wrong move.


	8. Chapter 8

It did not take long for the increase of his workload to begin taking its toll on Francesco. After the hectic week of closing the quarter’s account, he had expected the following week to be more relaxed, with earlier finishes and lower stress levels. He had considered finally getting some of his appointments in, such as the visit at the optician’s or the haircut. Instead, his head was pounding from the minute he entered the cool shade of the Pazzi building, leaving the bright sunshine and hoards of tourists outside. Even in the height of summer, luckily still weeks away, the inside of the building was cool and unperturbed by the furnace that Florence’s old town turned into. But now it did not even take staring at his screen for a few hours for his eyes to become tired and his mind to get sluggish. The inside of his mouth was raw and painful, his lips bitten so thoroughly that the skin was as thin as overstretched old varnish. One bite and it would tear. Instead, he was tugging at the back of his hand, pinching the skin and scraping his short nail over it, as if to scratch an itch that was so deep inside him it could never be reached. He had moved the piles of files from Umberto’s desk into his own office. There had been a lot of good work, as far as he could see, but the undeniable indicators of an increase in customers moving their accounts to different banks.

The Strozzi had dished him up some half-baked apology about cutting ties with the Pazzi after so many years of successful collaboration but it being for the better. Reasonably, it had of course been the right decision, the terms being much more favourable at the Medici bank than at the Pazzi’s. Still, they would have to fight harder than ever to stay afloat, not to mention that thriving and prospering was out of reach for the foreseeable future. 

Francesco wondered if he should have a word with his uncle. There were ways to increase their revenue if only they finally overhauled their antiquated systems and entered into the new millennium. They lagged at least 15 years behind their direct rivals in Florence, let alone the rest of the banking world. So far his uncle had refused any innovations and changes, devilling them as nonsense, even if Francesco, having studied accounting and finance, was the de-facto expert on them. But if they kept going down the old and well-worn paths, the business would eventually fold. It was exactly what Francesco was employed by his uncle to prevent. But making him see sense was about as easy as convincing a freight train to derail itself from a straight and downhill track to its own doom.

Rubbing his tired eyes with the palms of his hands, Francesco sighed to himself. The conversation was inevitable and he had best get it out of the way. The longer he waited and tried to fumble his way through, and the longer he kept the news about the Strozzi from his uncle, the worse the repercussions would be. Maybe he would get fired after all, even if he could not see how that would profit his uncle in any way. He looked around his office, eyes burning with tiredness and swimming from the pressure he had applied with his hands. It was messy. Piles of paper and files everywhere. His neat sorting system had collapsed under the increase of work and he had had to use the floor space for the stacks instead of the box on his desk.

Biting the inside of his mouth, Francesco got up. There was no use delaying this by trying to tidy the chaos into yet more piles. Crossing to his office door, he paused, hand on the door handle, to listen to the noises outside. It was quiet, even after he cracked the door open a notch to listen again. Quiet was good. Quiet was better than shouting or even chattering. It meant that people were busy and focused and unlikely to barge in on them while he tried to sway his uncle to finally change course. Again.

The steps to his uncle’s office were familiar but stretched out in front of him, as if time had suddenly decided to work sideways instead of progressively. His shoes clicked on the marble and the sound was eerily loud in the silence. Umberto had by far not been the only recent employee let go by his uncle, many a desk was unoccupied as hiring new people seemed out of the question, so long as the remainder of the staff managed to cope with the workload. Francesco knew how much they saved in wages this way, but he also knew that it would not be enough.

Simonetta, his uncle’s secretary, hurried past him with a stack of papers in her arms. She gave him a tired smile, her face lined with age and years of hard work for the Pazzi family. Her heels drowned out his own steps and he was at his uncle’s office door before he knew it.

His uncle called him in immediately after his knock had resounded from the walls of the corridor, the sound bouncing through the cool air. Francesco entered quickly, shutting the door behind himself. With his back still to his uncle, he tried to brace himself for the conversation they were about to have.

“ What is it?” His uncle did not even look up from his papers.

Francesco cleared his throat and advanced into the centre of the open space in front of the desk. He did not dare sit, not having been invited to do so. It would also slow down his escape, should the need to bolt arise.

“ I have reviewed Umberto’s files,” he said. 

“ Don’t tell me. We are ruined.”

His uncle’s tone was bored, dripping with sarcasm. Francesco hesitated.

“ Well. We are. Things need to change if we are supposed to stay in business beyond the end of this month.”

Only then did Jacopo look up at his nephew, a wry smile playing on his full lips.

“ We will be fine once the Strozzi account is back in our hands.”

As usual, he had detected the weak point and stuck his knife straight into it.

“ I’ve spoken to them.” Francesco’s voice was quiet. “They cannot be swayed.”

His uncle’s fist pounded down on his desk with a crash. Francesco jumped, his very core flinching. He winced, unable to keep his face in its neutral mask.

“ I. Told. You. To. Convince. Him.” His uncle’s breath was going quickly, his voice raised already, nothing short of shouting. “You dare show up here telling me you failed?”

Francesco bowed his head, dropping his gaze to the tips of his polished shoes. He felt his hair fall forward in rigid strands, covering most of his face from his uncle’s stare.

“ I tried. The conditions others,” he did not dare say The Medici, “offer them are unbeatable.”

“ I don’t care!” Jacopo got up and walked round his desk to stand in front of Francesco. They were nearly the same height, but Francesco’s bowed head meant that he was only able to see his uncle’s body. He did not need to look in his face to know that an angry expression was distorting it. Jacopo’s fury was apparent in his voice and his tense stance, the tip of one of his shoes tapping the floor impatiently, his fists clenched by his sides.

“ You will make them come back and apologise to us,” his uncle spoke softly, his mouth too close to Francesco’s ear. “We will not fail because of your incompetence.”

Francesco thought it would be pointless to try and point out that it was his uncle’s incompetence that had caused the mess in the first place, so instead he gathered all of his remaining courage and said, “If we introduced some small changes to the way we run things, we might be able to recover and attract more business going forward.”

His uncle pulled his head up by his hair, his face very close to Francesco’s.

“ You don’t tell me how to run my business,” he snarled, spittle landing in Francesco’s face. He tried his best not to wince.

“ I’m only-”

The backhanded slap landed on his cheek before he could finish the sentence, a burning streak where his uncle’s ring seemed to have finally grazed his skin. Once more, he tasted blood. The inside of his lip had split open again.

“ You will go back to your office and fix this.” His uncle was already on his way back to his chair when he added, “And you will fix it by the end of this week. I don’t care if you work the weekend. It’s your mess.”

Francesco crept out of the office, the back of his own cool hand pressed to his burning cheek. When he looked at it, he could see that there was no blood on it. At least something. And he had not bitten his tongue this time either. The small split in his lip was easy to deal with. He seemed to get better at taking punches.

His uncle’s words kept replaying inside his head. If he did not find a solution by the weekend, he would not only be screwed but also have to miss Guglielmo’s engagement party. And he had promised to attend it. While work would be a perfect excuse to skip having to parade his newly acquired bruise in front of the entire Medici family, he could not let his brother down. It was supposed to be one of his happiest days and Francesco was honoured to be invited to share it with him. There was no way he would miss out on it. He just had to find a way to keep the Pazzi bank in trade for another week or four.

Using the dark screen of his phone, Francesco checked his face in the safety of his office. Luckily, he had not run into anyone on his way back, the humiliation of the crimson imprint and budding bruise the last thing he needed at that moment. There was indeed no proper cut, just a graze and some swelling forming under his right eye. It had been a while since Jacopo had dared target his face. He had been asking for it, he supposed and sighed quietly.

Putting away the phone and pressing his free hand to his cheek, the touch cooling and calming the irritated skin, Francesco took stock of his options.

He could go behind his uncle’s back and shift things around, creating new opportunities for investments and income generation, or he could cheat the numbers even worse, effectively taking their customer’s money as collateral without their consent - which was highly illegal and absolutely not his task. But if his uncle discovered that he had changed the systems without his consent and against his instructions, Francesco might be even worse off. Either option would take more time than he had left that week. While the business would survive the weekend, Francesco gathered that he would have to find a way of excusing himself early for party on Saturday without revealing where he was going. The last thing Jacopo needed to know was that his older nephew was engaged to Bianca Medici, daughter of his arch enemy and business rival.


	9. Chapter 9

On Friday morning, Francesco still had not found a satisfactory solution to the problem of the Pazzi bank’s likely bankruptcy.  He had come up with, and discarded, dozens of ideas. Each less viable than the one before it.  He had fallen asleep the previous evening while combing through his finance books and expert advice online. He had found the files he had used to collect all of his university paperwork and spread their contents across his living room in a desperate attempt to unearth some hidden key to unlock a saving strategy. It had become more apparent with every page, every article, every summary that the only thing he could do was overhaul the system, creating a temporary upheaval and commotion, introduce a new strategy - piling up some more debt in the process - and pray that it paid off and customers took the modernised trade as a sign to invest. If they did not, they would be ruined regardless.

Francesco stumbled into the bathroom. His tired brain at some point had suggested he cut a corner by simply taking care of his outgrown hair himself. But as soon as he entered the bathroom, he met his own gaze in the mirror and approached it cautiously, unable to prize his eyes off the glass. It was as if he tried to approach a feral animal. His own face was gaunt and the cut on his cheek, scabbed over with a thin crust where the ring had after all torn open a few layers of skin, oozing pale orange liquid after a few hours, was now surrounded by a most spectacular bruise. It was not black, as it might have been had his uncle decided instead to use his fist, but a purple welt, radiating over his cheekbone and slowly turning yellow around the edges. In short, he locked as if someone had decided to smooth down his cheekbone but failed in the process of hitting Francesco’s head against a flat surface, instead merely mushing up the blood vessels running under the skin. It was most certainly the most colour he had worn in a long time.

The party. Francesco dabbed at the bruise, wincing as pain pulsed between his bones and his finger. He would have to show up to Guglielmo’s engagement party looking like this. Maybe chopping off his hair was not much of a good idea after all. If he showed up with a bruise in his face, people would think him reckless. Bad for business, potentially, but not much to talk about. If he turned up with a bruise and a haircut like a maniac, there would be more talking and a world of trouble. He would look positively unhinged. Not something he could really afford, and besides, he did not fancy anything of the sort in the first place.

So maybe he should call Guglielmo with an apology and stay well clear of the whole affair. That sounded like the best option.  But what should he say? The last time, a toothache had been the cleverest he had managed to come up with. And lying to his brother had sucked.

Francesco tried to ignore the pangs of guilt that shot through him all morning, while he tried to be sneaky about his changes and practically barricaded himself in his office to stay out of his colleagues’ sight. His face was not something that could be hidden well in meetings, so he skipped the only one they had scheduled for the day, claiming too much work. The excuse, mostly true as it was, went down well, luckily, and he did manage to get more done in the time he had won. Nobody in the office doubted that Francesco had more work than could possibly be accomplished by a single human being, so they did leave him in peace. 

He still felt guilty when he noticed, just after two in the afternoon, that he had forgotten about lunch. His body and mind were so busy tracking down the people he needed to subtly inform and instruct about the changes that he had not felt hunger or exhaustion. This state of hyper focus was comfortable, he reflected in the time it took to drink some water from the bottle he had commandeered from the small tea kitchen on his corridor. Some kind soul had brought home-made cookies and several crates of water for the staff. Definitely not his uncle. Maybe Simonetta.

Francesco still had not been able to bring himself to send Guglielmo a message about the engagement party by the time he had to turn on the lights in the office because of the darkness settling outside his window. He felt that he had finally reached the breaking point in his quest for a lifeline and if he only had another hour, he might be able to finish at noon the next day. Not because he had managed to secure the Strozzi account, but because he had found a way to divert shares and revenue and create a larger interest rate for the business while offering customers larger dividends and more favourable options on new accounts. It was mostly number trickery, but since Francesco was only good at numbers, this was the best he could do. It was also most definitely illegal.

The night guard kicked him out just as he had saved his day’s work and shut down his computer. He felt delirious and weightless, stumbling out of the dark building onto the lively streets of nightly Florence. Summer seemed to have arrived with full force, all the bars were open and people were still milling about at this late hour, enjoying the warm night and each other’s company.

Francesco was glad for the gaps between the street lights on his way home. By walking on the right side of the cobbled streets, he could keep his face in the half shadows, so people might consider him drunk but not dangerous. Had he cut his hair that morning, he would most definitely have attracted more worried glances. Maybe people thought he was drunk. And who was he to refute it? Maybe he was drunk, drunk on dubious success and sleep-deprivation. The feeling was familiar, and Francesco wondered fleetingly why he did not feel like this more often. It certainly made him care less about many a thing. 

While he struggled up the last flight of stairs, he remembered his brother. Guglielmo was meant to be celebrating in less than 24 hours. And he was expecting him to be there. Put-together and making a good impression, demonstrating that the Pazzi were, in fact, sociable and approachable and personable. He felt like none of these things, but in his exhausted state, Francesco resolved not to let Guglielmo down. He had involved himself with all manners of illegal and semi-legal activities in order to save the family business and his uncle’s pride. He had the right to take an evening for his own brother, dearer and closer to him than his uncle would ever be and had ever been. Disappointing Guglielmo, even at the cost of his uncle finding out and punishing him for whatever he deemed to be misbehaviour and disobedience, was out of the question. He never could, not where his brother’s happiness and well-being were concerned.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try and continue uploading daily chapters.   
> The formatting issue seems impossible to overcome - if you have any tips or tricks feel free to comment!   
> But enough housekeeping. Enjoy!

The Medici Palazzo was lit up to rival the other grand landmarks of Florence by night. The air was warm and, like every sunny day, full of potential. Smells of food wafted through the narrow streets onto the piazzas and the breeze was soft. Francesco nearly turned back at the last minute, repelled by the noise and glamour the Medici seemed to have planned to celebrate their oldest daughter’s engagement with. A bouncer at the door asked for his name and ticked him off on a long list of invited guests. Francesco, who had thought this to be a small, quiet, familiar affair, wished the ground would open up and swallow him. How had Guglielmo managed to get him to attend? Oh, right. He knew that Francesco would do anything his older brother asked for. Francesco could not remember the last time he had been in such close proximity to the Medici.

Guglielmo and Bianca were holding court in the entrance hall. It was hard to describe with other words, the queue of guests and well-wishers lining up to be welcomed by the couple, personally and with a few words for everyone. Beyond them, the inner courtyard twinkled with lights sparkling off champagne flutes and the guests’ jewellery. Francesco was also pretty sure that fairy lights had been strung around the statue of the naked boy, even if he could only see a blurry shape from where he waited to be welcomed. Definitely short-sighted. He should have dressed up a little more, he thought. For once, ditching the neck tie had seemed like a good idea and he had even gone as far as opening the top buttons of his white shirt, to exude an air of casualness even if he felt tense as a drawn crossbow underneath the carefully polished surface.

Guglielmo hugged him and could not help himself to whisper in his ear.

“ What the hell happened to your face?”

Francesco smiled wryly, the scab on his cheek pulling uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his brother’s gaze.

“ I walked into something in my apartment. Should’ve turned on the lights,” he muttered, looking as sheepish as he could.

Guglielmo laughed and shook his head in disbelief.

“ Typical. Hope you have learned your lesson.”

Francesco shrugged and turned to Bianca, since the queue behind him was far from shortening while he monopolised the couple’s attention. 

“ Lovely to see you, Francesco,” Bianca Medici said with a warm smile.

She had grown into a beautiful woman, Francesco had to admit. Long chestnut hair, fine features and elegant curves. Her smile reminded him of the memory he had of how her mother used to smile at him when he had been little. Gentle, surprisingly loving and full of warmth. She wore a simple dress that looked expensive. Probably because she wore it.

“ Likewise. Congratulations.”

Francesco hesitated, unsure as to how to greet her. Bianca quickly bridged the distance between them, standing on tiptoes in her high heels, and kissed him on both cheeks. Francesco was too startled to react in time to return the gesture, but smiled apologetically afterwards.

“ Thank you for the invitation.”

“ It would not be the same without you,” Guglielmo said and Bianca nodded in agreement.

“ I … brought something.” Francesco removed a small envelope from his suit pocket. 

“ You shouldn’t have.” Bianca smiled. 

“ There’s a table over in the far corner,” Guglielmo prompted helpfully.

“ Talk to you later, then.” Francesco nodded at the couple and wandered off into the crowd.

He was relieved that Bianca seemed to be genuinely happy to see him, even if it was only to entertain his brother. The other Medici siblings would probably not be as content, of that Francesco was almost certain. He crossed the courtyard and found a large table on which presents from the attending friends and family were piled. He placed his own small gift between a huge vase filled with biscuits and a parcel wrapped in glittering paper, larger than his head and topped with a huge bow. The envelope looked small, insignificant and out of place, just the way he felt.

Francesco decided to find a quiet corner from which to observe the happenings of the evening and turned, bumping into someone in the process. Someone almost as tall and definitely more broad-shouldered than himself. 

“ Sorry,” Francesco said, just as the stranger turned around.

Even after years without contact, he recognised Giuliano Medici in an instant. Him and his friends, Sandro and Angelo, the same little group they had always been. Giuliano looked surprisingly like his mother, Francesco noticed with some amusement. Had he not frowned or grimaced, his face would have been considered pretty or beautiful. He was also a little shorter than Francesco and his hair had the same honey colour as his mother's.

“ Pazzi.”

“ Giuliano.”

“ And there I was thinking your brother is the only face your family shows in public.” Giuliano looked at his friends, whose grins seemed to spur him on. “Not that I am surprised. Who smashed yours in?”

Giuliano’s eyes trailed over the bruise on Francesco’s cheek.

“ Nice to see you too.”

Francesco turned on his heels and walked away.

What had he been thinking coming here? It had been a terrible idea. Absolutely catastrophic. He should never have come, especially not looking like this. The rumours would soon be flying. The younger Pazzi was a ruffian. The Pazzi were a bad sort. The Pazzi could not be trusted. The same things people had been saying about Jacopo until recently. Only that now it was Francesco’s fault. His uncle would be furious when he found out. If he left now, maybe there was some dignity to be saved.

“ Francesco Pazzi!” A female voice sounded and none other than Lucrezia Medici, Bianca’s mother, glided over in his direction, arms outstretched.

“ I’m so glad you could make it,” she said after kissing both of his cheeks with more familiarity than he would have expected. Francesco did not know what to say, so he said nothing, smiling awkwardly instead.

Lucrezia was a very motherly presence, a stark contrast to her younger son Giuliano. Francesco could see how she must have been as beautiful as Bianca now was in her youth. She still had the chiselled features and long limbs, even if more lines now showed on her face and her hair had more grey than brown strands. Still, she radiated elegance and composure like none other. 

She did not mention his bruised face or let her gaze linger on it longer than would be considered polite, which Francesco had to give her great credit for. Instead, she clasped his hand in hers, his long, cold fingers gigantic compared to her warm and small hands, and turned to let her gaze wander over the crowd in the courtyard.

“ Guglielmo was fretting over whether or not you would be here,” she confided with a smile.

“ He’s my brother and I’m happy for him. Of course I am here.”

“ And we’re happy to have you.” Lucrezia did not look at him. “You mean a lot to him.”

Francesco hesitated. What did one say in situations such as this?

“ And he to me. They are a wonderful couple. Bianca has grown up into such a lovely person. You must be very proud.”

Diplomacy. Polite talk. It was the only route he felt like he had some footing on.

“ I am. They did not, however, let me interfere too much with the party planning.” Lucrezia seemed miffed. “But just you wait until the wedding. Bianca left the whole thing to me, because of course she is so busy at work and a wedding is a wholly different affair to plan. But I am rambling. Excuse me.”

Francesco could not suppress a smile. Lucrezia was, just as he remembered, a force of nature.

“ I am sure the wedding will be so splendid that people will talk about for years.”

Lucrezia smiled gratefully and squeezed his hand one last time before letting go of it.

“ I won’t keep you from enjoying the party. Let me know if you need anything. Have fun!”

She drifted away into the crowd, greeting people left and right before Francesco could say another word. He considered trying to find Guglielmo, but since he surely still would be at the entrance welcoming guests or maybe catching up with some friends, Francesco remained where he was, rooted to his spot underneath the arched walkway that encircled the entire courtyard. A DJ was just getting the crowd started on a selection of Italian disco music Francesco had no recollection ever hearing. He had never been following up with these kinds of things, so he would not have been able to name the artist or note on the popularity of the songs. He tapped the beat with the tip of his shoe but found that it made his shin cramp, so he quickly abandoned that attempt. Looking like he enjoyed himself was difficult, frustratingly so.

“ Long time no see,” a warm male voice said on his right side and Francesco jumped. He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had not noticed the person sneaking up on him. And staring at his cheek without any sign of bashfulness or tact. That could only mean one person.

“ Lorenzo.”

“ I wasn’t sure if it was really you,” the oldest Medici son said. “I mean, Francesco Pazzi does not show up to parties. Could have been a ghost. Or someone else.”

“ So how do you know it really is me?”

Francesco’s resolve not to let the Medici banker’s charisma affect him. Otherwise he would have melted like butter in the Tuscan sun. Damn Lorenzo and his whole sunny boy vibe.

“ Only you would show up at your brother’s engagement party, become the talk of the evening with that thing on your face,” he pointed at the bruise, “and stand in the corner looking like someone stabbed you or tortured you to attend.”

“ A colourful analysis,” Francesco retorted.

“ Do you need some ice for the burn?” Lorenzo grinned his boyish grin and Francesco considered punching him, just so he would not be the only one with a damaged face.

“ I think I’ll survive.”

“ Good. It’s nice to see you.” Lorenzo stood next to him, closer than Francesco would have liked. But inching away from Lorenzo would have definitely sent the wrong message. People were surely looking towards them, expecting some sort of showdown between the two most rivalled banking heirs in Florence. He did not plan on giving them some more gossip to talk about.

“ I’m here for Guglielmo.”

“ Who is over the moon. Anyone can see that. You mean a lot to him, you know.”

“ You’re not the first one to point that out.”

“ My mother found you, huh?”

Francesco laughed quietly.

“ She did. Your brother on the other hand-”

“ Don’t tell me.” Lorenzo rolled his eyes. “He’s a handful. I’m counting on you in the future to help me keep him in check.”

Francesco furrowed his brows. 

“ You’ll be part of the family soon. You won’t get out of this one so quickly.”

Francesco did not reply. Did Lorenzo allude to the abrupt end of their childhood friendship? Would he really be expected to attend more gatherings with the Medici family? Surely not. Guglielmo knew that Francesco could not possibly spend more time here than necessary.

But then Guglielmo could be surprisingly naive. Maybe he thought this marriage would solve decades, if not centuries, of family rivalries. If only. Francesco had a hard time keeping this from their uncle as it was. Should his presence be made public or known in the Florentine rumour mills, he would be screwed. Doubly. Thrice. Indefinitely.

Lorenzo seemed to sense that he had crossed an invisible line.

“ We’re happy to have you. Your brother is already part of the family, maybe we could let the old things be and start again?”

So Lorenzo also seemed to believe that they could just skip over the whole family feud thing. 

“ I’m here for Guglielmo. It’s bad form if the best man does not attend the engagement party. But don’t expect anything else from me. I know where I stand, as I am sure you know too well yourself. I don’t mix business with family matters.”

The last was as thick a lie as Francesco had ever told, but Lorenzo seemed duly repelled. He took a step backwards and shrugged.

“ Have it your way. You’re always welcome here, just so you know.”

“ So you can ruin my family once and for all?” Francesco had trouble keeping his voice down. The crowd was not nearly as noisy as he would have liked.  
“So you can share in your brother’s happiness and spend time with your extended family.” Lorenzo stressed the last word.

Francesco was the first to break his gaze and look away. After a moment, Lorenzo turned and walked away, leaving him more lonely than before while the courtyard kept filling up with more and more people arriving for Guglielmo’s and Bianca’s engagement party. Francesco had never felt less like celebrating. But for Guglielmo’s sake, he managed to plaster a small smile onto his lips, even if it hurt his cheek and kept crumbling away in the moments in which he did not keep his mind from wandering off the task at hand. Looking like he enjoyed being in the Medici Palazzo on a warm evening.


	11. Chapter 11

“Francesco, wait a minute!”

Francesco stopped dead in his tracks. He was running late for work as it was, the familiar voice of the Medici heir making him want to hit his head against a wall in frustration. Of all the times he had to run into him in the streets of Florence, this was the least convenient one. Eyes sparkling and matching tie flapping with the light jog, the Medici caught up with him. He looked crisp, clean and important in his smart suit.

“I thought it was you,” Lorenzo grinned as he stopped to kiss Francesco on both cheeks. They were almost the same height, but Francesco still felt like Lorenzo towered over him.

“You always shout strangers’ names when you think you recognise them in the street?” Francesco did not try to mask his sarcasm. After the engagement party, he had spent several fretful days praying his uncle would not find out about his attendance. He had found out about the engagement, raging for a solid hour while Francesco, summoned to witness, stood in the middle of Jacopo’s office, wishing to be anywhere but where he was and praying his name had somehow miraculously been kept out of the whole affair. Which it seemed it had. But he had not trusted the news not to catch up on his showing his face in the Medici Palazzo. The hour of raging had also cost him valuable time during which he had hoped to work some more on pulling strings with distant acquaintances and former customers to reel them back into investing in the Pazzi bank.

The rise in shares and accounts had not gone unnoticed, which probably had softened the impact of the engagement news somewhat where his uncle was concerned. He had actually clapped Francesco on the shoulders and praised him. Francesco had felt miserable, but tried his best not to let it show. His uncle was usually scarily good at picking up on the subtle signs Francesco never quite managed to hide. Not so much that day, however, his mind probably too preoccupied with other matters such as their business’ survival and his oldest nephew’s engagement to none other than Bianca Medici. Luckily, Bianca had chosen not to claim her birthright as the oldest child and instead chosen a different career path. Marrying the actual heir of the Medici bank would have been the literally worst thing anyone could possibly do in Jacopo's eyes.

Francesco jumped a little when Lorenzo’s hand on his upper arm brought him out of his reverie. He had not noticed anything Lorenzo must have been saying in the past minute, but he tried not to let it show.  
“You looked very far away for a moment,” Lorenzo remarked. Because of course he had to be as observant as Francesco was ignorant.

“Lots of work at the moment.”

“Yeah.” Lorenzo scratched the artfully groomed stubble on his chin. “Sorry about the thing with the Strozzi. I know it must have been tough on your business.”

Francesco would not be lured into sharing details about their financial situation. Especially not to Lorenzo Medici, who, if his uncle was to be believed, was only out there to flatten the Pazzi into the ground.

“We will live,” Francesco said.

“I’m glad.”

Why did Lorenzo have to sound so ridiculously honest and relieved? Francesco was certain that the other could not possibly care as much about the Pazzi’s well-being as he insinuated.

He checked his watch. He was running really late. Hopefully his uncle would not yet have noticed his absence. But if he had, Francesco would be in all kinds of trouble.

“Listen, I just wanted to say that I was glad you came to the party on Saturday,” Lorenzo once more diverted his attention.

“I did it for Guglielmo.” Francesco considered simply walking off, but thought even under the terms of family rivalries, it might be regarded as impolite.

“He really values your opinion,” Lorenzo agreed, not showing any sign of letting Francesco go any time soon. Luckily, the bell of the cathedral chose this moment to loudly ring the quarter of the hour and Lorenzo looked startled. “Am I keeping you?”

Francesco felt like slapping his own forehead.

“Yes. I am late for work. Is there anything else?”

Lorenzo looked at least a little like he felt guilty about keeping Francesco from making it to the office. Not that he had been on time in the first place, but it was nice to be able to blame Lorenzo for something.

“Would- would you be free to have a chat over lunch? A business lunch, if you will.”

Lorenzo looked every bit the part of the innocent and hopefully expectant puppy, which meant that Francesco agreed, if only to finally get rid of him. They settled upon a time and place and Francesco finally, more than twenty minutes late, managed to get to his office. His uncle seemed to be stuck in an early meeting - or maybe he was not even in yet, one could never be sure - so Francesco had a quiet five minutes to settle in and start his computer before anyone entering his office would have thought anything other than that he had always been there. Or at least as long as he usually was. The price of this reprieve seemed worth it. Lunch with Lorenzo de Medici. What could possibly go wrong?


	12. Chapter 12

Lorenzo had suggested a quiet little trattoria in a backstreet near Francesco’s office, much to his credit. Francesco felt an odd sense of relief to be able to escape the office, if only for the short lunch break. Hopefully Lorenzo would be able to keep things short and brief, because Jacopo was in a particularly bad mood and the last thing he needed was to get on his uncle’s bad side for something as stupid as a Medici chewing his ear off.

“Thanks for agreeing to this.” Lorenzo pushed a small basket of bread and some butter Francesco’s way.

"I don’t have much time,” Francesco said and managed to sound somewhat apologetic. Truth be told, he did not want to make time either.

“Of course.” Lorenzo took a sip from his small cup of coffee, the smell of which made Francesco’s stomach churn with hunger. He had not been able to stomach much lately, attributing the lack of appetite to the increased stress at work. Things were on an uphill path, but still far from ideal. He gave in and grabbed a slice of bread, buttering it as sparingly as possible before pushing the dishes back towards Lorenzo, who had much less reservations when it came to helping himself.

“I’m sorry about the Strozzi,” Lorenzo began, gracefully spreading the butter on a small piece of bread and took a bite off it with an expression that spoke volumes about how much he seemed to enjoy it.

Francesco chewed slowly. 

“It’s business,” he conceded. “And you already said.”

“Still. I know it is a big account. But word has it you are changing up the way things are handled at the bank. A lot of people are quite excited about it.”

Francesco shrugged.

“Did you ask me here to relay rumours?”

Lorenzo chuckled.

“Of course not. I actually wanted to discuss a more personal matter with you.”

Francesco stiffened. He composed his face into a blank expression before his surprise could show. What personal matter other than perhaps the marriage of their siblings could Lorenzo possibly want to discuss with him? It was not as if they had been friends for a long time and regularly confided in each other. On the contrary.

“I know we have not spoken for a long time and we are very different people now than we were when we were little,” Lorenzo said. “But I was happy to see you at the party last week and I was rather hoping that maybe we could give it another shot.”

“It?” Francesco’s mask slipped and he looked properly confused.

“Oh god,” Lorenzo said quickly, raising his palms defensively. “Not that. I mean. Our friendship. I know we both work long hours and there is little love lost between your uncle and my family, but it doesn’t need to continue the way it was, does it?”

Francesco chewed on a breadcrust and was glad that at this moment the waiter arrived and brought their food so that he could take another minute to think about what Lorenzo had said. Even if Lorenzo really wanted to be friends and not just use him for his own advantage, what would be the cost of trying to pick up where they had left off some fifteen years ago. It would also mean hiding yet another thing from his uncle and the pile of secrets was suffocating him as it was.

Lorenzo seemed to be unable to take his silence much longer.

“I know it is a tricky thing I am asking. Who knows if we still get along, although I do pride myself in being a lot more personable once the work personality has been locked backed in the office.”

“Ever so humble.”

"And you are still sarcastic and reasonable.” Lorenzo smiled. “What do you think? You let me ramble on but as per usual I have no idea what is going on in that head of yours.”

Francesco could not help it, a small smile spread on his lips.

“I don’t know,” he said more honestly than Lorenzo could ever know. “I have a lot on my plate right now.”

Lorenzo nodded compassionately.

“Of course. I mean, I don’t know what is going on, but maybe I could help, be there if you want someone not entirely work related to hang out with. An excuse for you to get out of your house every so often. Maybe even visit us with or without Guglielmo as an incentive.”

Francesco considered the proposal. He would of course never be able to talk to Lorenzo about anything even remotely related to work and his family’s business, or his uncle for that matter, but if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he had only noticed at the engagement party how much contact with other people had been lacking in his life recently. And they really had been great friends as children. In fact, Francesco thought with a rare sense of nostalgia, they had been like brothers. Giuliano had been too young to play with them. The age difference had seemed massive to them, less so now, of course. But they had shared their gelato, their bruised knees and the attention of Lorenzo's nonna, a woman Francesco remembered barely bit always most warmly. That swayed him.

“My uncle can’t find out.”

Lorenzo nodded.

“Of course. But he doesn’t need to, does he?” His smirk was cheeky and there was a mischievous twinkle in Lorenzo’s blue eyes. Francesco grinned, suddenly feeling like a little boy again, scheming with Lorenzo to play pranks on their siblings.

“There’s something else I would like to hear your opinion on,” Lorenzo continued.

Their plates were cleared away and Francesco was unable to stay still in his seat, already dreading being late or missed at work. Trust Lorenzo to come to the point after half an hour of rambling.

“I met this woman.” Lorenzo grinned sheepishly and Francesco already regretted agreeing to reconnect with him. “She’s moved here from Rome and she’s just…” He stared into the distance with a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Does she work for you?” Francesco wanted to get this done and over with quickly. He felt like time was running out, slipping through his fingers and Lorenzo was wasting it with matters as unimportant as his love life - which Francesco thought he should not confide to strangers about after a mere half hour of having talked to them.

Lorenzo shook his head. “She works in a firm we sometimes hire for marketing and events.”

“And does she know you have feelings for her?”

Lorenzo looked horrified.

“Of course not!” Considering that Francesco knew of Lorenzo's reputation as a bit of a gigolo, he was remarkably flustered now.

“Then why don’t you ask her out. I mean, what have you got to lose? If she doesn’t like you, you’ll know, and if she does, you’ll have a great time.”

Francesco thought the matter was rather simple and practical, but he would be damned to admit to Lorenzo that he himself had absolutely no clue as to how to form a meaningful relationship with anyone that was not related to him by blood. And those relationships were for the most part also far from voluntary or optional, not to mention dysfunctional at best.

“Just like that? I don’t want her to accept because I am, you know, Lorenzo Medici.”

Francesco sighed quietly. This was why he did not entertain friendships. Apart of course from his work and his uncle.

“I’ve got it. If I make it sound as informal as possible-” Lorenzo began.

“She won’t feel pressured because you would not be upset with her if she turned you down.” Francesco finished for him. Lorenzo beamed.

“Thanks for your help!”

Francesco did not feel like pointing out that Lorenzo had done most of the heavy lifting, and would have to ask the woman in question out himself.

"I have to go,” he said and pushed back his chair.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Lorenzo hastened to follow his example. Did he not have any work to get back to?

“My pleasure,” Francesco said, unsure of whether or not he actually meant it. He had enjoyed the food and Lorenzo was such an enigma, that one could hardly help but have a good time in his company.

“We should do this again soon.”

Francesco took care of his cheque and shrugged non-committally. 

“Good luck with the date.”

“Thanks.” Lorenzo kissed him on the cheeks again and waved, walking off in the opposite direction to the one Francesco had to take to get back to work.

“I’ll be in touch!” Lorenzo yelled over his shoulder, his step as bouncy and energetic as ever. Francesco was not sure whether or not he dreaded it or looked forward to it. Conflicting feelings seemed to be the newest craze in his brain. Maybe he was overworked. That would make the most rational man confused.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder about the trigger warnings. Please consume mindfully.

_ Got your number off Guglielmo. I really enjoyed out chat. L _

Francesco could not blame his brother for passing on his mobile number, not really. Lorenzo Medici would probably have moved heaven and earth to get it, so it would have been the path of least resistance to simply cave in to his charm. And Guglielmo had a penchant for charm as it was. His and Bianca's engagement stood living proof to that. Not that Francesco doubted their love for each other.

He let the phone’s screen go dark. He was bent over some papers he had taken home from work, the light of his small desk lamp like a beacon in the darkness of the apartment. He still felt off balance, shaken by the lunch with Lorenzo. He had been hit by his charisma like by a freight train. Not appearing completely zoned out during the remainder of the day had taken a lot of determination and focus. Francesco could hardly believe that his uncle still had not found out about his involvement with the upcoming Pazzi-Medici wedding affair. While the Pazzi bank seemed to slowly make its recovery - painfully slowly, in Francesco’s opinion - it was of course never enough for Jacopo to just let it be. He had inevitably gotten word about the way his nephew had restructured things and was less than pleased about the innovations. Of course it would have been delusional to think he would never find out, but Francesco had dared to at least nurture a little bit of hope about the duration of blissful ignorance. It had lasted just about a week, which was already more impressive than many of the things that had riled him up in the past.

Simonetta had appeared in his office earlier that day, just about halfway through the morning. Her apologetic expression had said it all and Francesco, shoulders so tense he was surprised they were not yet touching his ears, had made the short walk over to his uncle’s office, following his summons. Jacopo, sat back in his chair and with a dangerously blank face, had not invited Francesco to sit, instead studying him silently for what felt like at least several minutes. Francesco had felt hotter and hotter, a bead of cold sweat running down his back under his white shirt, bumping over all the lines and marks on its path. Francesco’s hands, which he held loosely clasped in front of him, as if he was simply waiting for the bus or his turn at the ATM, were cool and damp. While he had felt the strain of his muscles under his skin, he had been relieved that no visible shaking or twitching had given him away. He had had more than an inkling about why he had been summoned, but of course there was still the choice between being a traitor for befriending the Medici, soon to be his family in law, and remodelling their business structure against his uncle’s expressed wishes. In the end, Francesco had felt a giddy sort of the relief that it had only been the latter.

“You thought you could sneak this through under my nose while I am too busy with the disgrace your brother has brought on our family name, haven’t you?” His uncle finally stood and crossed the room to stand in front of Francesco.  The smell of his cologne was an assault on his nerves. He could see the fine shine on his uncle's face, the large pores. His stomach lurched.

Francesco did not dare blink, let alone lower his head. Of course it was true and for a while, he had almost said, it had seemed to work.

“But if I remember correctly, I forbade you to change anything,” his uncle continued after it became clear that Francesco would rather bite his tongue off than answer. “And yet here we are. I was surprised, pleasantly surprised, at the new numbers. But you have still broken both the law and violated my trust. And while I am willing to cover for your illegal activities until you force me to report you, I will not tolerate disobedience. Even less so when it is my own flesh and blood that ignores my orders and barges ahead into a catastrophe such as this one.”

It would have been pointless for Francesco to point out that his actions had, in fact, saved the bank. Jacopo seemed content to let the new structure prevail - if he was the one credited for it and if it stayed the only deviation from the traditional handling the Pazzi had employed for decades, with decreasing success but typical stubbornness.

Francesco would happily pass the praise and laurels on to Jacopo, if it had meant he got out of the whole affair unharmed. But of course simply taking credit for his nephew’s work and far less illegal activities than his own would not have sufficed on this occasion. Jacopo took a tiny step and finally invaded his personal space. Francesco felt the warmth of his broad body, the wafts of cologne wrapping themselves around him like a cloud. He focussed on not gagging as his stomach lurched again, violently.

“Be glad you’re not involved in that wedding on top of everything,” his uncle hissed in Francesco’s ear and Francesco felt tiny droplets of spittle land on his skin. He had had to suppress a shudder, masking it instead as a defeated slump in his muscles. 

The firm grasp his uncle had had on the front of his shirt, the tightness of his tie literally about to strangle him, had left Francesco gasping for air and dizzy, his muscles suddenly disobeying him and threatening to make his knees buckle under the weight of his body.

He coughed, gasped, and coughed again, the breath like a cool lifeline, an anchor. 

“Get out of my sight. And should any other things come to light that involve you in any way, be it your miserable brother and his new family or something to do with your shoddy work, an apology will not cut it.”

Francesco had skulked out of the office, still rubbing his neck where the knot of his tie had pushed into his Adam’s apple. His windpipe felt too small, as if swollen shut. The whole area was tender and heating up quickly. He was sure to bruise. He bit his lips, a different source and quality of pain. More familiar and distracting. It was still better than when his uncle had once actually used his hands or his belt to limit his breathing. The shame of gasping for air like a fish on land kept invading his mind without invitation or prior announcement, leaving him as dizzy as he had been, and almost as much out of breath as if he really was being strangled over and over again.

Returning to his desk and pretending that nothing had happened had not been easy. Francesco had jumped at every noise coming through his closed office door and at lunchtime, he had convinced himself that he needed to just finish this bit and then the next, skipping the hour reserved for leaving the building to get some food entirely. Not that he ever took the full hour either way.

At the desk in his living room, Francesco rubbed his eyes with a small sigh. His throat still felt a little raw and he would not be in the least surprised if he found some marks on his neck in the morning. Luckily the collar and tie combination was usually fairly good at hiding these things. And since his hair was out of bounds, people would be distracted from looking below his face either way. Not that he intended to have much contact with anyone outside the absolutely necessary meetings at the bank.

His phone buzzed again, making his arms rattle through the elbows he had used to support himself on the desk with. Francesco rolled his eyes. He should probably have replied to Lorenzo’s text. If he was anything like the child Francesco had known all those years ago, the simple confirmation of reception would not suffice. The Medici craved attention and if it was not given freely, they did not shy away from taking it where they thought it appropriate. Which was in an awful lot of places. Francesco remembered the gallery opening a few weeks back. Lorenzo would probably have attended it, basking in the public's praise just as much as the artists did.

When he actually looked at the lock screen, however, he raised his eyebrows and unlocked it more quickly than could be expected at this time of night.

_ Lorenzo made me give your number over to him. Sorry. Are you free next Friday? We have a little gathering to discuss the wedding with all of the manlings. _

Francesco snorted. Manlings? That sounded awfully like the entire male Medici family in one place and with way too much cause for happiness owed to the upcoming wedding. There would be booze and silly man jokes, of that he was certain.

_ It’s okay. He would have gotten hold of it either way. _

Francesco paused. He really did not fancy spending more time than necessary in a confined space with the Medici. On the other hand leaving Will on his own and susceptible to Medicean corruption was out of the question. He sighed and the sigh turned into a yawn.

_ Where and when? I won’t have more than an hour or two. Busy at work.  _

Guglielmo’s reply came almost instantly, as if he had prepared the answer, hovering over the ‘send’ button. 

_ Friday, 8pm, Luigi’s. We have a lounge to ourselves. Cool, right? _

Francesco rolled his eyes and confirmed before adding the meeting to his phone’s calendar. He already dreaded it, but it could not be helped. Anything to make his older brother happy. He just needed to be even more careful not to be discovered by his uncle or anyone from work that happened to spend their Friday evening at the most popular bar in all of Florence. It would be just his luck to run into a colleague and have the whole thing blow up in his face. Francesco plugged his phone in to charge over night and turned off the lamp. In the darkness, sure-footed as ever, he tapped into his bedroom and undressed. Before his head even hit the pillow, his eyes had fallen shut and he drifted off into the uncomfortable sleep the minutes between his nightmares granted him.


	14. Chapter 14

The bruise around his throat had faded into pale yellow hues by the time Francesco entered  _ Luigi’s _ just after 8. His uncle had held him up at work, questioning why Francesco was leaving early instead of working late into the night as he normally did. Francesco had lied straight to Jacopo’s face, telling him that he had been able to finish the work in time but would have to come in the day after regardless. He would have loved to take Saturday off, but since Jacopo did not and had only stopped short of actually demanding to see proof that his nephew had done enough work for the day, there was little in way of excuses not to show up the day after. But that was okay. The evening with Guglielmo and - the part he dreaded - the Medici would hopefully be worth the trouble. He had even managed to secure an appointment with the optician the week after - during his lunch break, just to make sure his uncle did not deduct any pay or make a fuss about it. Francesco’s headaches had become worse and worse, so the only way to increase his flailing productivity in light of the massive amount of work that always had to be done, was to finally get his eyes looked at. He was pretty certain he was not going blind, but some assistance with staring at his screen for hours on end would be a relief.

The rest of the party, of course, were already assembled in the cosy lounge the bouncer at the door pointed Francesco towards. Guglielmo jumped up mid-conversation to enthusiastically greet him and Lorenzo, too, came over with a warm smile and kissed him on both cheeks. Francesco suspected that at least half of the present Medici were already well on their way to being tipsy, judging by the loosened collars and discarded suit jackets all around. The noise level did little to alleviate the persistent pounding in Francesco’s head, so he ordered an alcohol-free drink with as much ice as possible. If he was to work the following day, joining in with the drinking was out of the question.

“So glad you could make it.” Guglielmo was beaming, looking every inch the part of the happy groom-to-be.

“Sorry. I got held up. You know how it is.” Francesco made a vague gesture.

Guglielmo pulled him towards the semi-circle couch on which the others were already lounging. Francesco recognised Giuliano, who studiously ignored him, as well as Sandro, Lorenzo’s buddy since their nursery days. Guglielmo and Sandro seemed to be getting along swimmingly, both being artistic and personable types.

Lorenzo introduced a quiet man as his cousin Carlo and a man about Guglielmo’s age as Poli - without any explanation as to why or what that even meant. Francesco nodded politely and shook their hands.

Sitting down next to his brother, who was gesturing animatedly, miraculously without spilling his drink, Francesco shrugged out of his suit jacket. It was hot in the small room and he feared the inevitable splash of alcoholic beverages on his favourite suit. Not that he owned a plethora of them anyway. It did not smell of rancid beer or spilled cocktails, as one might have expected, but the scent of a group of men. Aftershave, sweat, starched collars and expensive leather shoes.

“So. Stag Party.” Giuliano spoke loudly so as to be heard over the noise the other were making. Francesco leaned back, nursing the glass of lemonade the waitress had brought with lightning speed.  It was cold, sour and sticky sweet. Condensation started to form on the glass as he held it in his damp hands. It was very refreshing.

"I don’t want-” Guglielmo interjected but was quickly cut off by his brother-in-law-to-be.

“We know, we know. But even a quiet meal had to be planned. And don’t think you’ll get out of this without at least one visit to a club.”

“It doesn’t need to be a strip club though,” Lorenzo said, trying to mediate between the two extremes. Francesco suppressed a smile. A strip club was the last place either him or his brother would ever frequent voluntarily. Not that Francesco had not wondered idly about what it would be like. But it definitely was not Guglielmo’s cup of tea.

“The wedding is in two months. I suggest we have the dinner the weekend before? Say, Saturday night?” Lorenzo was scrolling through his phone, clearly checking his calendar and probably a list of restaurants he had already pre-selected. Francesco was slightly impressed but mostly terrified at the prospect of having to dine with the Medici - in public - and being seen by all of Florence’s glitterati.

Guglielmo nodded enthusiastically. “Saturday would be great. But can we get a reservation this late? I mean, I know how busy most places are this time of year and we’re not exactly early in booking a table.” Guglielmo’s forehead was creased and he was clearly as invested in this as Lorenzo. Francesco wondered if he should be caring more about the whole thing. But he could not bring himself to do so. Parties, family meals, that was as far from his comfort zone as it went.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Lorenzo scrolled some more on his phone. “Any preference?”

Guglielmo shrugged. “Comfortable. I don’t want to make people dress up to their ears. Good food, nice atmosphere, not too public.” Guglielmo smiled briefly in Francesco’s direction and Francesco could not help but smile back.

“Got it.” Lorenzo busied himself with his mobile phone and left Guglielmo and Francesco to a more private conversation between brothers. 

"You look tired,” Guglielmo said quietly.

“Bad luck in genes,” Francesco said and Guglielmo rolled his eyes. “I blame it on you. You always look refreshed. Let me look crumpled. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You do look like shit,” Lorenzo interjected helpfully without even looking up. So he had been eavesdropping after all.

“Just a lot of work.” Francesco lowered his voice and spoke closer to Guglielmo’s ear so as to keep Lorenzo out of the loop. “He’s let a few people go. Nothing serious, we’re on the upward trajectory, but it’s just more work for everyone. Nothing we can’t handle.”

Downplaying how bad the situation truly was was becoming one of Francesco’s easier tasks. He had years of practice and Guglielmo seemed to swallow the lie, as usually.

“Just don’t work yourself to death,” his brother said with a worried crease between his eyebrows. Francesco had trouble holding his intense eye contact, but looking away or blinking too early would reveal all the things he was working so hard to hide.  So he forced himself to relax and smoothed his face into as careless a smile as he could muster.

“I won’t, I’ve got your wedding to survive,” Francesco joked, his hand subconsciously wandering up to his throat, as if to cover what remained of the bruise. Guglielmo did not seem to notice though, squeezing his brother’s shoulder, suddenly all excited again at the prospect of marrying Bianca Medici. An undercurrent of happy excitement was always there, but for obvious reasons, this was now more of a tsunami. It retracted only to hit time after time with full force.

“Right, all done,” Lorenzo said and shoved his phone into the pocket of his trousers. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and suit trousers, visibly more expensive than Francesco's and much newer. He, too, seemed to have come to  _ Luigi’s _ straight from work. At least in that Francesco was not the only one.

“I want a party though,” Giuliano said and pouted.  
“Then throw your own,” Guglielmo shot back with a grin. Francesco was a little surprised at the easy way Guglielmo seemed to have integrated with the Medici and their friends. But then, he had not been indoctrinated into the whole Pazzi family thing.  Even if, Francesco hoped that it would have worn off by now.

“So who is planning the wedding itself?” Francesco looked around, unable to picture any of the men present to be quite up to the task, Lorenzo potentially exempted. 

“Our mother.” It was Giuliano who answered, much to Francesco’s surprise but with the hostile tone he was used to from the youngest Medici son.

“She is a force of nature,” Guglielmo confirmed. “But you can always talk to her if you have any questions. Just- be prepared to be drafted into the whole army of wedding-related minions she has created.”

Francesco shook his head. “I would rather shoot myself.”

Giuliano looked like he wanted to say something but a quick look from Lorenzo made him bite his tongue instead. Francesco raised an eyebrow, confused.

“On a different note,” Lorenzo scanned the room, “none of you have enough to drink. Let’s order another round.”

His proposition was met with loud cheers and Francesco excused himself to frequent the bathroom. He did not want any part in the heavy drinking that would surely unfold soon. He was a little surprised that Guglielmo, steady but fun, was so on board with everything the Medici suggested. Francesco had hoped that he showed a little more critical distance. But it was too late at this point to nudge his brother in the opposite direction.

Should being part of the Medici family make Guglielmo happy, Francesco did not want to stand in happiness’ way. He hoped to be able to escape sooner rather than later. He had work the next morning and while he enjoyed Guglielmo’s - and Lorenzo’s - company, the small room was too crowded and made him feel claustrophobic. The noise levels also did little to alleviate his discomfort. His head pounded out of rhythm with the base even the padded walls of the lounge were unable to muffle. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is pouring with rain here, please be safe!  
> Should there be BE/AE (English variant) mix ups in this chapter (or any of them, for that matter), please do let me know. Happens way too often with my word processor and confused brain.
> 
> Enjoy some exciting news in this chapter! ;-)

“I thought we could have lunch at this new gallery today,” Lorenzo announced and held up two paper bags from one of the best bakeries in the old part of Florence. “I need to check them out and I think you'd enjoy it. Maybe find a painting or two to decorate your cold, white walls.”

Francesco raised an eyebrow. Lorenzo had been loitering dangerously close to the bank, ambushing as soon as he had left to grab a bite of lunch. He just hoped nobody had seen or, worse, recognised them.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” Lorenzo said with a nonchalant shrug and handed one bag over. It contained a paper cup of what Francesco hoped would be coffee, a neat box that read _Prosciutto Verde_ and a smaller paper bag with a pastry-shaped fat stain on the bottom. Butter pastries.

“How much do I owe you?”

Lorenzo just smiled and shook his head. “The gallery is this way.”

“We didn't get to talk the other night,” Lorenzo said while he inspected a very splashy, very modern painting that made Francesco feel like drowning. Lorenzo must have excellent peripheral vision, because on cue with Francesco's confused look, he elaborated. “At the bar. How are you doing? You don't have to talk about it, but I am not completely blind.”

“Just a bit full of yourself?” Francesco suggested. Lorenzo shrugged easily and grinned. Francesco sipped on the coffee. It was too good to be true. “Good. Busy.”

“Aren't we all.”

He hoped Lorenzo would let him off without digging deeper and, for once, his wish came true.

“I actually wanted to, you know, talk about that thing we talked about the other week.” Lorenzo was staring so hard at the painting that Francesco was surprised to find no holes in it.

“What thing?” If prompting a monologue was what it took to not have to talk about himself, he was all in. He could always not listen.

“My feelings for the … you know. The woman from Rome.”

“Oh.” Francesco looked down at his shoes and bit his lip. “Maybe I am not the right person to give you relationship advice. Have you tried talking to Guglielmo?”

Lorenzo huffed. “If I tried, he would tell my sister. And then the teasing would never end. Or worse. Giuliano could find out. You're my best option.”

“That doesn't make your other options look good.”

“Ha. Ha. I also value your opinion.”

Francesco stared at Lorenzo, who was fortunately much too absorbed in his own feelings. Or maybe the abstract paint splatters in front of them.

Lorenzo seemed to interpret Francesco's silence as an affirmation and continued.

“There really are few people I can talk to when it comes to what I feel. Not business or any of the other things that concern my family or my person. I'm sure it's similar for you.”

Francesco felt Lorenzo's gaze and studiously avoided meeting it. He did not talk about feeling, full stop.

“Maybe it was the pressure of growing up as the heir of the bank, maybe it was some kind of daddy issue,” Lorenzo huffed, clearly not that serious after all. “Whatever it is, I think falling in love properly, not a teenage crush or fading fascination, is something I was never taught anything about. I think, as a man, as a successful man with lots of responsibilities, I should almost... have to talk about my feelings, you know? It should be my right. Not something to be ashamed about.”

Francesco did not dare glance at his watch, although he desperately wanted to. He felt a little bad for how unhelpful he was being.

“Anyway. I think I am falling in love with her.” Lorenzo walked on to the next painting, but Francesco was frozen in his tracks.

“How- I mean, are you sure?” he spluttered.

“I don't know. But I can't stop thinking about her. Imagining her by my side. Our family. Having children, all that kind of romantic kitsch.” Lorenzo looked sheepish. “She is very witty, incredibly kind but also very strong. She knows what she wants. I admire her.”

Francesco bit his lip and put his next words carefully in order in his mind before pronouncing them.

“It sounds like you feel strongly about her. Maybe- maybe it would help to find out if she sees you in a similar way?”

Lorenzo's concentrated expression exploded into a beaming smile.

“You're right. I mean, I kind of knew I had to actually talk to her about it. But I couldn't have said it better!”

Francesco felt himself being pulled into a strong hug, before Lorenzo fished his phone out of his pocket and started when he checked the screen.

“I am so sorry for keeping you. Thank you for the talk, I hope I did not get you in any trouble?”

“Don't worry,” Francesco said with the expressed knowledge that he was absolutely in trouble if Jacopo saw him return late from lunch. He supposed Lorenzo was lucky to be able to give himself a pass, being the head of the Medici bank and all.

“Thanks for meeting me. I think I am getting those two,” Lorenzo had already turned to the curator and pointed at two of the less ugly paintings. At least not all hope was lost there, Francesco thought to himself.

He ducked out of the gallery, dumping the empty food wrappers in a bin and hurried back to work.

When Francesco returned to the bank, his uncle was stood outside his office at the very end of the long hallway. Francesco felt his cold stare on him and focussed on his breath, his gait, anything to appear normal. He had just returned from lunch, which he had had by himself. Nothing spectacular. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“You,” Jacopo pointed. “My office.”

Francesco sighed and followed. He would have hung his head, had it changed anything.

“A little bird tells me you were seen talking to Lorenzo Medici,” Jacopo said, casually. He walked over to his desk and took a seat. Hands folded in front of him, he looked at Francesco, clearly expecting his nephew to defend himself.

Francesco swallowed. So they had been seen. He should have known better. But what could he possibly invent as good enough of a reason to excuse whatever his uncle's informant had reported back to him if he had no idea how much the person had seen, or worse, heard.

“Politeness to business rivals is considered appropriate, I am sure,” he tried to be vague. His lips scraped against each other and he had to fight the urge to pull them between his teeth.

“You looked familiar, or so I am told. Is there anything you would like to tell me?” When the questioning started this calmly, without the cards on the table, the outcome was most difficult to predict, even after the years Francesco had spent analysing and over-analysing his uncle's erratic behaviour.

“We crossed paths. No more than ten words were exchanged.” He hoped his uncle's minion had been too busy running back and reporting to hang around for the visit to the gallery.

“Be that as it may. Befriending people,” his uncle's spittle nearly made it across the room to Francesco's shoes, “like the Medici is bad business. And worse manners. If I ever hear of you even being within a hundred metres of one of those brats again you will wish you were not born.”

Finally, Francesco found his tactic forward.

“I would never, and you know it.” He crossed his arms. “Trust me, uncle, I was barely polite. I would never spend more than a minute with a Medici, and if you paid me for it, I'd still refused.”

Jacopo's distrustful expression melted into a more agreeable one. Cursing and bedevilling the Medici was his favourite pastime.

“I trust you. You are the heir of the Pazzi bank. You will act like one. And you know the consequences any misstep will bring.”

Francesco nodded and considered himself dismissed.

Out in the hallway, he tried to dry his damp palms on the fabric of his trousers, with little success. He would have to make Lorenzo stop ambushing him. Stop meeting him in public places. Meeting him outside of the wedding events, full stop. Francesco barricaded himself behind his desk and ran a weary hand over his face. He found his phone and typed a quick message to Lorenzo, which he hoped was vague but not insulting. He hoped the Medici had enough sense to follow his request.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big Trigger Warning for this chapter - same as usual.

Jacopo waited until most of the employees had left their offices for the night. It was just after 8pm, the sun was low in the sky and the day’s heat - barred by the thick walls of the ancient building - was beginning to cease its firm grip on Florence. Francesco suspected that his uncle had waited on purpose until even loyal Simonetta had left her post before he showed up in his nephews office, throwing open the door without knocking.

Francesco, a day away from finally picking up his new glasses, jumped in his chair and nearly swept the glass of water that was stood by his elbow off the table. He blinked, the form of his uncle blurry in contrast to the bright computer screen in front of him.  The lamp on his desk was still off, as it usually was. He always got carried away working only by the light of the spreadsheets on his screen. His stomach rumbled, as if annoyed. Had he forgotten to eat again? Slowly, the room beyond his desk took shape and the blurry figure in the doorway gained shape.

“What-,” he began, before quickly shutting his mouth when he saw the glint in his uncle’s eyes.

"Someone tells me that you are to attend your brother’s wedding.” Jacopo crossed the room and leaned over Francesco’s desk. Francesco leaned as far back in his chair as he could. “But not only that. Rumour has it you are the Best Man and you befriended that Medici brat, against my expressed wishes.”

His uncle’s voice was alarmingly calm and low.

Francesco lowered his gaze, as clearly an admission of guilt as any verbal confirmation could have been.

“ You betray my trust. You leech my protection and care, only to go out there and cavort with these people!” A droplet of spittle landed on Francesco’s face. He did not dare move to wipe it off, frozen in place.  He pressed himself back in his chair, as far back as he could. The cold wall behind him was within touching distance. He only had to tilt his head back. But he did not dare avert his eyes.

He knew how things would go from here. He should have seen it coming. There was no way to avert what was about to happen, he thought, trying to brace himself for the inevitable.

“I should have known, of course.” Jacopo paced in front of the desk and Francesco, still seated, considered pushing him over and running for the door. Not that it would do any good. Besides, Jacopo was more stout than he was, and stronger besides. “You were always too close, too trusting. It’s just such a shame how you fail time after time to see how following Guglielmo around like a lost puppy makes you look weak. People talk about you behind your back, did you know that?”

Francesco shook his head, unable to look up.  Maybe, by playing the part of the rueful nephew, he could delay what was about to come.

“They say you are a lost cause, useless, that if I had not taken you in, you would have ended up on the street, washing up in the river one day, drugs, alcohol, who knows.” His uncle paused in his tracks and leaned over the desk once more. “And you know what? They are right. Without me, you would be nothing. Your brother left you. I raised you, because he saw how useless you were to him and left you. And now, what do you think he really wants from you? You company? For you to defend his marriage? Don’t kid yourself. He only uses you because he knows you would do anything for him. Oh, how you admire him.”

Francesco’s surprise at the last observation must have shown plainly on his face, because his uncle laughed, a loud belly laugh, and once more held his gaze. 

“Did you think I didn’t know?” One would have mistaken his tone for that of mere amusement, had there not still been that malicious glint in Jacopo’s dark eyes. “Nothing you do can be hidden from me. I know you have been meeting that Medici brat. Do you really think he wants to be friends? I doubt it. Nobody wants to be your friend, Francesco. They are using you to get information about our family, nothing else. You are just a tool to them. A means to an end. Did you think they cared about you? You are even more naive than I could have guessed. You don’t matter to them.”

His uncle crossed around his desk and stood directly in front of Francesco. Francesco’s eyes flickered towards the door and he swallowed, hard, trying to fight the panic rising in his throat.

His uncle followed his gaze and smirked.  
“Go on, shout for help. They won’t come. They won’t even hear you. They are too busy living their own little lives, thinking themselves so clever and polished. There is nobody here but you and me.”

Another droplet of his uncle’s spit had landed on Francesco’s face and his stomach, too empty and already queasy, churned.

“I think it’s about time I taught you a lesson. You have been awfully unhelpful in the past few weeks. Did you think you would get away with any of it? How about we show Guglielmo what a little piece of shit you really are? I’m sure he’d think twice before even inviting you to be at this fucking wedding.”

Francesco knew things were about to get bad when Jacopo slipped into profanities like this.

“I would have hoped you had learned after all these years that you are just a tiny, tiny cog in the machinery of this bank. Nobody here cares about you, but from the goodness of my heart I have given you shelter and food and employment. You owe me the clothes on your back. The little apartment you rent because you are so ashamed to live with me. Every time you act against my orders, you kick the kindness I have shown you with your dirty feet.”

His uncle pulled Francesco up by the front of his shirt, memories of the recent bruises sparking in Francesco’s mind and flashing like little pinpricks of light in his vision. Jacopo’s grip was iron and it made Francesco feel as if he was a small kid again, defenceless and weak, fully exposed to his uncle’s will.

Jacopo marched him into the middle of the room, standing between Francesco and the door, before he let him go. If Francesco had thought his uncle was beyond the point where physical punishments went past kicks or slaps, he had been wrong. Terribly, painfully wrong. Even without his uncle holding him, he was frozen in place. He wanted, desperately, to run, but his body wouldn't budge, not even one foot.

Jacopo unbuckled his leather belt and rolled up the crisp white sleeves of his shirt.

“Turn,” he grunted and Francesco obeyed, his body acting without any incentive from his conscious mind. He remembered to unbutton his own white shirt, pulling the loose loop of the tie over his head. The thought of strangling himself occurred to him. But it was too late.

Francesco braced himself against the cool wood of his desk. The air of his office, as stuffy as it was, sent a shiver of chills down his sweaty torso. He could smell his own fear, it stung sharply in his nostrils.

When the heard the loose clinking of the metal buckle, Francesco lowered his head, defeated, and tried to tense his body in anticipation of the first blow.

He heard it before he felt it, the belt gone from his back before the pain hit.

Francesco could not suppress a cry of profound hurt as the belt came down a fourth time, then a fifth.

“Go on, call for help, cry out, nobody will hear you. They’ve all gone home. It’s just you and me left. And we have plenty of time to teach you this lesson as many times as it takes for you to finally understand it.”

The buckle shot across his back again and amid the lines of fire, so painful his back was practically numb, and stars dancing in front of his darkening vision, Francesco felt a trickle. Whether it was blood or sweat was impossible to say. Small droplets of clear liquid were on his desk below his head. Sweat, tears, who could tell.  A sob echoed off the walls. Dry, no tears, just salty sweat. He squeezed his eyes shit and grit his teeth once more, his breath hitching.

When it was over, Francesco’s knees gave way and he sank onto the cold marble floor of his office.

Jacopo discarded his belt in Francesco’s bin and turned one last time to face his nephew, hand already on the door handle.

“Nobody will believe you, that’s the best part, isn’t it? Because why would such a generous man as myself do these things to the boy I have reared to become my heir and continue our family’s heritage? I have been generous in raising you, in protecting you. Nobody will believe you if you rat about this - nobody.”

The floor was so cold beneath his hands and lower body, that Francesco wished he could roll over, into his back, and let the cold extinguish the fiery lines of pain. But he knew that any touch would cause more harm than good, and the pain would most likely make him black out completely. He had to get home somehow.

Francesco noticed small specks of red on the white shirt he had carelessly dropped beside his feet. He picked it up, his hand shaking so badly he wondered how he would fasten the buttons. Every move was agony, and when he attempted to get back up on his feet, he must have blacked out, because he came to some time later, the side of his body completely cold from lying on the floor. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he thought his back was less sticky, the blood probably having gelled and dried in most places. That would make things easier. He likely did not have long until the night guard would come in to lock up, and Francesco did not feel like explaining the bloodbath in his office to anyone.

He struggled into the shirt, probably ruining it for good, and gritted his teeth when he pulled his suit jacket on to cover the marks that would soon soak through the back of the fabric.

On the black and grey marble, the small marks of his own blood were nearly invisible in the fading light. Instead of fighting to mop them up with tissues, Francesco ignored them, hoping the cleaning lady would simply mistake them for dirt. They would have dried up by the early morning hours.

He must have attracted a few queer glances on his way home, but Francesco remembered little until he stood at the bottom of the stairs in his apartment building, wondering how on earth he was meant to get all the way up there. Walking had been agonising, but in the twilight of the evening, he had hoped to look simply tipsy and unsteady on his feet. His face had reflected pale in the dark shop windows, his hair messy. The protective overarched posture made him look odd, deformed. But then, maybe it was just the way his inside now transpired to his outer form.

Francesco let his suit jacket slide down his arms. He clutched it tightly in his free hand, while pulling himself up step by step on the bannister, breathing heavily and feeling dizzy again by the time he stood in front of his door. He fumbled for his keys, letting himself into the flat. Only then did he remember that he had left his bag at the office. Francesco sighed and winced. Moving his rib cage, or anything for that matter, hurt. 

He would have to sleep on his stomach that night, praying that scab would quickly build on the gashes. Apart from the appointment at the optician’s, he did not have to see anyone the next day. Francesco was relieved. On the downside, Guglielmo's dinner was being held in three days’ time. He would worry about that when he got there, Francesco decided groggily.

From now on, he would have to be even more careful. His uncle might pride himself on knowing everything, but if Francesco sold his friendship with Lorenzo as double-agenting for Jacopo, maybe there was a way to even be sanctioned to meet. As for the wedding - he had to go. He owed Guglielmo, even if the doubts his uncle had sowed in his mind were beginning to take root.

His empty stomach cramped. He had once more meant to have a filling dinner and failed. Standing in the dark kitchen in his underwear, Francesco managed to eat a few dry crackers and wash down a large dose of painkillers with a glass of water. They knocked him out reliably fast. There were not dreams, for once. Just blackness and a fuzzy feeling.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it!

The morning began with blinding pain and a feeling as if the skin on his back, hips to neck, had been lifted, stretched and refitted but not allowed to relax back into its shape. His body was stiff and felt wrung out like a sponge. Francesco had managed to forget about all of this since the last time it had been as bad. Francesco considered skipping the shower - already overwhelmed by the agony the crusty gashes on his back put him in. He walked into his bathroom, as gingerly as an old man would, and twisted in front of the bathroom mirror to inspect the extent of the damage. His stomach turned when he saw the dried blood and inflamed skin. He wretched over the toilet bowl for a solid minute before his empty stomach conceded. The movement had caused some of the thin scabs to split and bubbles of serum and blood were forming. A shower it was then. 

The lukewarm water had done little in terms of killing the pain. A lot of the dried blood had loosened and Francesco had been able to rinse it off, wincing whenever his skin was tugged at by the flow of the water. It was bad, and he knew he should probably have gone to have someone look at his back, but then he would have to explain what his uncle had done to him and that would definitely be the wrong thing to do. 

Francesco found an old ribbed tank in his drawers and put it on. The white cotton was soft and washable. It would to until he could buy some bandages. Not that wrapping himself in gauze would do much good either way.

He tried to bend forward to put his socks on, but even with the painkillers he had taken, the stretch of his back threatened to cause more splitting and leaking fluids. Instead, he had to awkwardly angle up his feet by his side, perched on the edge of his bed, and fumble his socks over his feet. What a start to the day that was.

The extensive cleaning up and dressing procedure had taken longer than Francesco would have preferred and he had to make do with a coffee to go and a small pastry for breakfast at his desk. His uncle would unlikely show his face until after lunch, Francesco knew from experience. He was intrigued, in a morbid way, how Jacopo would try to excuse his behaviour this time.

When Francesco had been a teenager and his uncle had created the scars he had destroyed the night before with what would in time become a new set, Jacopo had left him in peace until the next evening, leaving his nephew to sort out his own bandages and treatment. He had been ashamed, he had said, and apologised. It had been Francesco’s fault for aggravating him, of course, but he had also vowed to only punish him for misbehaviour. If he behaved, he had nothing to fear. It had been the same excuse for years at that point and Francesco knew that there was nothing he could do right regardless, so he accepted the apology and the small radio his uncle had bought him (but took away whenever he listened to the wrong music or had the volume turned up too high). But with the naive hope of a child that still believed that it could find a way to finally manage walking the tightrope between what he wanted and what his uncle allowed.

Francesco had never forgiven him, not for a single slap or kick or foul word, but the small voice inside him, the one that believed that things happened for good reasons, kept telling him that he deserved to be punished, since he had walked into all of his mistakes with open eyes and in full knowledge that what he had been about to do was wrong. 

The floor in his office was pristinel and the bin had been emptied. If it had not been for the pain, numbed by a scarcely healthy dose of ibuprofen, Francesco might have managed to believe that the previous day’s events had never occurred in the first place.

At lunchtime, Francesco snuck out to the optician’s and collected his glasses. The weight on the bridge of his nose was unfamiliar and he thought they made him look more intellectual and old than even the dark circles under his eyes and the plain ties ever could. He was also positively stunned at how much better he could see when he sat down, gingerly, at his desk and put them on to look at his files while he ate the sandwich he had bought at the bakery.

For the first time in a long while, and partially owed to the ibuprofen, he did not have a headache by four o’clock.

His phone buzzed.

_ Tomorrow. 7pm. Don’t forget. I’m so excited!!! _

Francesco could not hide a smile when he read his brother’s message. He confirmed and all of a sudden, the thought of being in a room with Guglielmo, Bianca and the Medici clan seemed less of an ordeal. Except that he would have to pretend to be okay. And take lots and lots of painkillers. And be careful not to drink too much. After all, one thing he knew from experience was not to mix drugs. Just after his sixteenth birthday, a late night sneaking out and getting caught two metres from the safe haven of his room had resulted in a beating that had left him bruised and tender but without a mark above his collar. So he had taken half a blister of painkillers and shown up at one of Jacopo's work dinners. The wine sample and sneaked beer had forced him to retire early, not only green but seriously ill. Vomiting up everything had been agonising. If he was given a choice, he would rather die than repeat that experience.

Francesco slipped to phone back into his pocket lest someone walk into his office and took a sip of water. His mouth was dry and he thought he could already feel the blisters taking painkillers usually caused starting to form on the inside of his mouth. Whether it was due to the pills or the quantity, he had no desire to discover, but they reliably formed within the first 24 hours of ingestion, making his tongue heavier and his speech just a hint more slurred than normally. He also seemed to be dehydrating more quickly, but that was a whole other issue. At least he had a solid base of food on which to take the pills. Vomiting more than once a day was out of the question, let alone at work.

Francesco had just taken his third dose of medication when Simonetta knocked at his door and entered.  
“Have you not seen the email?” she asked, a little impatiently. 

Francesco quickly closed the document he had been working on and opened his mailbox. Indeed, there it was. An invitation to an impromptu staff assembly.

He flushed and hastily stood, causing stars to dance in front of his eyes.

“I’m coming,” he said through gritted teeth and Simonetta left. Francesco took a few deep breaths, steadying himself on the edge of his desk, before walking to the small conference room they usually met in. It was less snug than usually, both because it was Friday afternoon and because of the harsh culling of employees in recent weeks.

An assembly rarely meant good news, as Lucca remarked, the remaining marketing person and hobby weight lifter.  
“But the timing is good,” Lucca continued. “We have made better business and customers are returning in larger numbers.”

Francesco nodded but refrained from adding his share to the conversation. He stood as close to the door as he could, the room already being rather full and the standing position more tolerable for his back.

“Thanks for taking time out of your busy day!” His uncle stood up and the chatter died down in an instant. Jacopo looked around with a smile and Francesco’s insides clenched. “I know it hasn’t been easy recently, you all have done more than your share of work. But I have good news!”

He searched the assembled faces and his gaze landed on Francesco. 

“I am happy to announce that, thanks to our hard work, we are finally back in black, our numbers, as Francesco will tell you, are better than ever, and so I have decided, thanks to the profit we are currently generating, and in agreement with the board-,” which was another fancy way of saying he had forced the shadow members of the Pazzi board, family and trusted friends, to agree, “we will give all of you a pay rise in the next month.”

Excited murmurs spread through the rows of employees. A pay rise was nearly unheard of in recent times. His uncle, however, was not quite done.

“I also would like to formally announce, that after five years of outstanding work for his family, Francesco Pazzi will be joining the board of the Pazzi bank. He has proven himself in business and the board and I would like to extend our congratulations.”

Lucca clapped Francesco on the shoulder, who winced with the pain shooting through his back, but grit his teeth and attempted a smile, nodding at the clapping colleagues around him. Their eyes spoke a different story, of course, thinking him to be the privileged heir finally ascending to the position he had not earned. Francesco could not care less, except that he realised, with a sinking feeling, that now all decisions formerly well outside of his power would still be blamed on him. Climbing the career ladder was a double-edged sword and Francesco would rather it had passed him over in favour of a more accomplished and neutral party. So this was his uncle’s way of making up for the injuries.

While the rest of the staff was filing out of the room, his uncle had signalled with a look that Francesco was to stay behind. The employees were chatting happily, many walked as if a weight had been lifted off their shoulders, released into the weekend with good news for once and now buzzing to tell their spouses and children that they had earned a rise. The surplus of work was momentarily forgotten.

“You’ll be doing important work for the family,” his uncle said, loudly enough so the last people leaving the room and outside in the hall would be sure to hear him. He clapped Francesco on the back, a gesture of praise in everyone else’s eyes, except for Francesco’s who winced visibly as he felt the topmost gash split open again.

Jacopo smiled, just a little too widely, and walked past his nephew, back to his office. 

“I’ll be expecting your full commitment,” he said over his shoulder and Francesco hung his head.

Of course, it was a clever ruse to tie him to his work even more and fill up the time he could have used to see his brother or anyone outside of work. At least that was what Francesco guessed his uncle thought. 

What Jacopo seemed to overlook, time after time, was the Pazzi stubbornness that Francesco, much like Guglielmo and their uncle himself, had inherited and cultivated over the years. Francesco was determined to keep his brother out of this game Jacopo was playing and enable him instead to live the happy life he deserved. If that meant living a double life or working even more hours, so be it. Guglielmo wanted Francesco in his life, as did Francesco want his brother in his, and more than that, he had named him his best man. It would not only ruin the wedding but Guglielmo’s entire life if Francesco let him down. 

Time after time, lying in his bed at night, his body in pain, his mind whirling with incomprehension and hurt, Francesco had sworn to himself that if he could not become Guglielmo, he could at least make sure his brother lived a life free from the troubles that plagued Francesco. It had meant standing between Jacopo and his older nephew, a human shield and a buffer, and keeping secrets, some grave, some small, for many years until they became part of who Francesco was. He was not transparent. He never played just one game and he, too, had started to scheme. After all, he had learned from the best.


	18. Chapter 18

Lorenzo had found the perfect restaurant, matching Guglielmo’s instructions to the letter. Tucked away in a courtyard by the old city wall was a cosy, ambient Osteria with plenty of tables under a canopy of vines and string lights. Francesco, aware that he of course was far from being a connoisseur of Florentine top spots, wondered why he had never even heard of its existence. A long table was laid out in the center of the courtyard, candles flickering in jars, ivy weaving down the middle as if it was growing out of the pristine white tablecloth. In one corner, a patio heater stood ready to keep the patrons warm once the nightly chill set in.

Francesco stood by the entrance to the inside dining area, where guests were being served as usual, while the outside area had been closed for a private occasion - Guglielmo and Bianca’s dinner party. He had taken about half an hour to bandage himself up, wrapping his torso painstakingly in gauzy fabric and covering the mess he had made of it with both an vest and a full suit - minus the tie. Guglielmo had insisted on semi-formal attire, so here they were. And it was just as well, the location seemed to demand it. He spotted Bianca, a glass of prosecco in her hands, chatting with some women Francesco had never seen before, looking every bit the happy bride-to-be in her cocktail dress.

“Francesco!” Guglielmo had noticed him standing awkwardly in the open glass door and came over from where he had been hidden by the throng of guests helping themselves to drinks off a few big trays set up on a side table.

Guglielmo embraced Francesco, who winced when his brother’s hands came down hard on his back.

“What’s that on your nose?” Guglielmo asked when he withdrew and Francesco had managed to bite down the flare of pain. Francesco tried to squint at his own nose, without much success, probably looking quite cross-eyed.

“Oh, that.” He grinned sheepishly. “I got a pair of glasses to help with the whole staring-at-a-screen thing. I think they leave marks.”

Two red dots, one on each side of his nose, showed whenever he took off his glasses after wearing them for more than half an hour at a time. In the first two days, they had been tender to the touch, now he had almost forgotten about them altogether. After all, there really were more important things.

Guglielmo looked torn between making fun of his brother and complimenting him. Francesco spoke before he had a chance to do either.

“It’s a lovely location.”

“I know, right?” sounded Lorenzo’s content voice behind Francesco. The Medici had walked up to them from inside the restaurant, balancing his own glass of red wine as if he was born to look casually cool. “Great to see you again, Francesco.” 

Francesco would never get used to the familiar way with which Lorenzo kissed people on both cheeks, no matter how often he had to endure it. Then Lorenzo clapped him on the shoulder and Francesco was glad he had ramped up the amount of painkillers for the occasion. It would have hurt a lot worse otherwise.

“I think you’re seated opposite Clarice and me,” Lorenzo said, striding towards the table. Francesco exchanged a glance with Guglielmo, who just shrugged.

“I can’t say I did the party planning. Not sure if it even is my party,” his brother joked and let Francesco go to follow Lorenzo.

The Medici was already stood by the center of the long table, his glass still casually cupped in the palm of his hand.

“Clarice?” Francesco asked.

Lorenzo’s smile reminded him of a cat in the cream.

“Remember the girl I was telling you about?”

“The one from Rome,” Francesco remembered.

“That one.” Lorenzo nodded in the direction of where his sister stood with her friends. “Dark red dress, blue belt.”

Francesco spotted her effortlessly. She stood a little apart from the gaggle but seemed to be listening intently. She was beautiful, objectively speaking, and when Francesco glanced back at Lorenzo, he saw the soppy look on the other’s face and could not help but smile.

“I hope I won’t scare her off,” he said and Lorenzo laughed so loudly that Clarice actually looked over in their direction.

Francesco, amused but unwilling to show any of it, watched as Lorenzo inclined his head in her direction, raising his glass with such non-verbal eloquence that it looked as if he simultaneously bowed and toasted towards her. She smiled back, eyes glittering in the candle light and Francesco sudden felt as if he was intruding on a very private moment, even across the courtyard.

“But you don’t even have a drink yet!” Lorenzo exclaimed and strode back towards the improvised bar. The crowd of guests had somewhat dispersed and they managed to get to the drinks without having to push past anyone, for which Francesco was immensely grateful.

“No alcohol for me,” Francesco interjected before Lorenzo could force a glass of prosecco onto him. 

“We have some lemonade,” Lorenzo said and sounded almost apologetic. “Or orange juice.”

“Lemonade is fine.” 

Francesco accepted the glass Lorenzo handed him. It was cold in his hand, condensation pearling off the sides and ice cubes clinking softly against each other as he took a sip. The cool liquid seemed to run down his throat like a refreshing stream and Francesco had not realised how thirsty and hot he had become, especially considering the layers of fabric he wore on his torso.

In the mirror on his wardrobe, he had noticed much to his amusement, that he looked more stout and less gaunt, filling the suit jacket rather than simply wearing it. He had never been chubby, not since puberty, but he had undeniably lost weight recently, so all his clothes fit a little more loosely than before.

Lucrezia clinked the blunt back of a butter knife to her champagne flute and the assembled guests went quiet.

“Welcome, everyone!” she said, smiling into the round. “Please, have a seat. I have taken the liberty of arranging the seating, so you will have to find your name on the place cards. I think we will have the first course soon, so please feel free to order drinks at the bar,” she pointed to the side table where a waiter had appeared miraculously and quietly, “or help yourselves to some more refreshments. Thank you all for coming, I think I speak for all of us when I toast to Guglielmo and Bianca!”

The crowd raised their glasses and Francesco saw Guglielmo place a little peck on Bianca’s cheek, before whispering in her ear and making her giggle. Francesco's throat went dry. This was what he had come here to protect. For some reason, the notion of the best man as the strongest fighter came to his mind and he almost smirked with the irony of it. He would never be the strongest fighter, but he would defend the couple with his life, if it came to it. In that respect, he was a surprisingly fitting choice. It was this happiness, this love in his brother’s entire being, that Francesco vowed to protect and guard. He might not be overly fond of the Medici family, but they had welcomed his brother into their ranks with graciousness and open arms, so Francesco would forever owe them his gratitude. They had managed what he could not. Giving Guglielmo the wholesome, happy family he deserved.

The guests resumed their chattering and slowly found their seats at the table. In the warm evening air, the smell of the candles mixed with the laughter and general noise of the party. The women's perfumes were light and tickled in Francesco's nostrils.

“I did not think you would show your face again,” Giuliano’s voice sounded next to him. Francesco looked down at his glass, not sure how to reply. 

“I am the best man,” he said, leaving it open for Giuliano to interpret as he wished.

“But you do fall out of the picture somewhat.” Giuliano smiled his easy smile, looking every bit as if he was just making friendly conversation. “If you dare hurt my sister, I will end you,” he said through his teeth.

“Guglielmo would never-”

“I said you. Your brother loves her and would never harm her, I am sure of it. But you. You are bad news.”

Giuliano took a sip from his glass of champagne and toasted in Francesco’s direction. “Consider yourself watched.”

He strode away, taking his seat next to his mother and a young woman Francesco recognised as one of Bianca’s friends. He probably had known her name once upon a time. To his short-lasted amusement, she ignored Giuliano's attempt at talking to her. Francesco looked away quickly, before his staring could be considered rude.

He looked down at his drink, considering Giuliano’s badly veiled threat.

The danger came from his uncle, but of course Giuliano did not know that and Francesco would be the last person to tell him. He was, frankly, surprised that the young Medici had noticed anything off about him, or maybe he just remembered the rumours and stories people still told about him. Francesco bit his lip, the pain grounding him. He would have to be more careful, with everything. Jacopo could not find out about this, Guglielmo could not find out about Jacopo and the Medici, god forbid, could never find out about any of it. The mere fact that Giuliano had decided to corner him with his suspicion was already bad news.

Francesco noticed that he was one of the few people left standing, and walked over to his seat as quickly as he could, carefully lowering himself into the woven chair, his back straight and as inconspicuously far from the back of it as he could. A stream of waiters appeared, setting beautifully arranged plates of salad in front of them.

Lorenzo, sat next to the girl from Rome, Clarice, smiled at something she had said before noticing Francesco’s glance. Francesco wanted to look away, embarrassed and uncomfortable by how publicly Lorenzo displayed his feelings, but the Medici had already raised his voice and introduced him to Clarice.

“This is Francesco Pazzi, he works for our biggest rival here in Florence.”

Clarice looked confused, so Francesco added.

“I’m Guglielmo’s brother.”

“And best man,” Lorenzo said.

“Clarice Orsini, nice to meet you.” She smiled at Francesco and he inclined his head.

“Likewise.”

“Very gallant for a bad guy,” she said and Lorenzo laughed. Francesco could not suppress a smile.

“You should not believe everything people say about us Pazzi. How are you enjoying Florence?”

Clarice looked surprised, so Francesco explained that Lorenzo might have told him a little about her. Luckily for both of them, she took it as a sign of Lorenzo’s affection instead of gossip. 

“It’s a nice city. There are a lot of … factions though. It’s disorienting when you have to be careful who to speak to about what and who can be trusted.”

Francesco nodded.

“There’s a lot of old families about,” he explained. “But I am sure you won’t have any trouble. We are stubborn, but we are also friendly and welcoming.”

Clarice nodded enthusiastically.

“Lorenzo’s family are incredible.” She smiled at him and Lorenzo looked about as radiant and happy as the couple at the end of the table, whose marriage they had assembled to celebrate. Francesco wondered when Lorenzo would follow suit with Clarice. He was surprised to catch himself wishing them all the best for their relationship and being caught by the contagious happiness that floated through the air like the summer smells in the twilight. He was almost happy, in that moment.

“What does your uncle say about all of this. I am sure he has had word by now,” Lorenzo said while they were waiting for the dessert. Francesco felt full, warm and content, but wished he could lean back in his chair to relax.

“It’s none of his business,” Francesco said curtly.

Lorenzo, tipsy but still perceptive to his undertones, looked taken aback.

“I work for him. I help him run the business. But I separate my private life from my work.” 

“Do you think he will come to the wedding?”

Francesco laughed at the absurdity of the question. He noticed Clarice watching him attentively and hastened to explain what could not be explained without spilling all the ugly details.

“He would never, even if Guglielmo had invited him. They are not on speaking terms. And honestly, the less he is involved the better.”

“That’s sad,” Clarice said.

“Guglielmo has us now, we are family. And Francesco too,” Lorenzo added with a quick glance at Francesco. He felt put on the spot by it and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He forced his face to remain impassive. Guglielmo deserved a family. He certainly did not. He already had all that he deserved, as the growing pain on his back kept reminding him. The painkillers were wearing off and more than once, Guglielmo had stopped by between courses to amicably clap him on the back and check that he was okay. Francesco was pretty certain that the bandages were now glued to him by the fluids his wounds had started to leak again. The evening ended too late and with more drunken guests than Francesco would have liked. Bianca's friend, the one whose name he could not remember and who had not cared for Giuliano's attentions, had tried to rope him into a coffee that would have led into awkward sex. So he had firmly prized her hands from his arm and told her to go home and sleep of her considerable buzz. He felt a little bad for not making sure she got home okay but it wasn't his problem, was it?


	19. Chapter 19

The wedding was only a week away and Francesco scanned the screenshot he had taken of the couple’s wedding list for the umpteenth time. He had taken a new one that very morning since people kept ticking items off and he had long lost track of the cutlery set he had initially planned on getting them. A set of dinner knives was a handy thing to have, he reflected, fully aware of the irony. However, someone had already got them the beautiful 100-piece set Lucrezia had put up on the wish list for the guests to organise. So Francesco was once again trying to find something, anything, that would not break his small savings account and was not too tacky or embarrassing to get. 

Someone, likely Giuliano, had managed to hide several dubious sex toys amid the crockery and towels and miscellaneous household items. For one second, Francesco almost considered it, but the very thought was cut short when a knock sounded on the door to his office and he let the phone disappear in his pocket, trying his best to at least look busy. He might just have to take a stroll through one of the department stores at lunchtime, instead of sitting down for a bite to eat, and pick the next-best ugly vase. Gifting people who could afford everything and were just politely highlighting useful items was an inconvenience he had not even previously conceived possible.

Simonetta stuck her head in, reminding him of the board meeting that evening. Francesco had, in fact, almost forgotten about and was grateful for the reminder.

"Is there anything else?” Francesco eyed Simonetta closer after she still lingered in his doorway, having delivered her message. She could have written an email about it, surely, which would have been sufficient as a reminder, although he was definitely too busy to actually red them in a timely fashion. The fact that she was still there meant that there was another matter she wished to discuss. A matter that was best only spoken about in person.

Francesco waved his uncle’s secretary into his office and she slipped inside, quickly closing the door behind herself. Francesco tried to look as sympathetically and open as possible, which was difficult since he wore his glasses, probably slightly askew on his nose, and his hair must have been more than just dishevelled from running his hands through the moussed curls. Not even to mention the fact that he was pretty certain that the printing machine was broken and he had run his hand over his forehead, spreading ink as he went. 

Simonetta wrung her hands before she took a deep breath. She had been with the Pazzi family since Francesco could remember, always there, always smoothing things out, making sure the complex machinery of the business somehow kept going, tidying up after his uncle and gently pushing people into their rightful positions, mostly out of harm’s way.

“I know you are very busy at the moment and I know that you did something to fix the account mess that was probably borderline legal at best-” she held up a hand when Francesco tried to interject that the less knowledge she had of it, the less she incriminated herself, “and it is really not my place to say this, but after all of these years I know you,  and only you, have tried to do your best to keep your family’s bank afloat. Please, hold your feet still for as long as you can. I know your uncle is aggravated by your brother’s marriage, so if there is anything you were planning on doing that could make things worse - don’t to it. For your own sake. For your brother’s sake.”

Before Francesco could say anything else, his uncle’s voice was audible from the corridor outside, calling Simonetta’s name. With a last imploring look, the elderly secretary slipped out of his office. Francesco sank back in his chair, then shot upright again with a hiss of pain. The wounds were healing, mostly itching like hell, but one or two must have caught particles of dirt in them, because they were inflamed and still leaking pus whenever he put too much pressure on them or made too big a movement with his arms or upper body.

Simonetta’s warning, while not out of the blue, was unexpected in the sense that never, in all these years, had she ever taken the trouble of personally speaking to him about their family’s private matters. Which probably also were their business matters, but of a more private nature.

He appreciated her warning, but unless his uncle was tapping his phone - illegal - or having him shadowed - also not entirely legal, he believed - there was little he could do about Francesco attending his own brother’s wedding. As long as he kept up with the work and his new duties on the board, he could spend the free day on Sunday as he pleased. 

The bells outside tolled noon and Francesco decided that this was as good a time as any to slip out and get that wedding present sorted. He would surely stay until locking-up hours again, the hours after the board meeting already filled with dealing with its results and the work left over from the day, so this was his only real chance to get out of the building and run his errands.

He stopped by a bakery to pick up a sandwich in a paper bag, stuffing it into his satchel, then dropped by the pharmacy for some caffeinated painkillers and bandages, before heading into the large department store near the Medici palazzo. Incidentally, this was the very store Guglielmo had his offices in, but Francesco hoped that as a HR person, his brother would not have any business on the shop floor. At least not on the one day he meant to buy a wedding gift on.

The air-conditioned coolness smelled of expensive perfumes and plastic and Francesco quickly pushed past the makeup counters and fragrance displays towards the escalators. The mixture of scents and fragrances was so intense it made him want to sneeze after the second breath. The home-ware department was on the fourth floor, out of the way of throngs of tourists and women of all ages browsing through the sales racks.

Francesco inhaled the quiet and subtle diffuser scent wafting through the mostly empty displays. It all looked so normal. Normal furniture for normal families with normal lives. He felt very out of place. Like on a different planet. He must have looked lost, because a busty assistant in a neat black blazer and pumps approached him with a slightly condescending smile.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” She kept a respectful distance and Francesco wondered if he still had that ink stain on his forehead, despite his best attempts at getting rid of it in the bathroom at the office.

“My brother is getting married and the wedding list does not quite…” He trailed off, but the woman was already nodding.

“Of course. Weddings are a tricky occasion, aren’t they? What is the budget you had in mind? Any inkling on what the couple might like? Their tastes? Would you like something more practical or ornamental? When my younger sister got married, my husband spent a solid day trying to find just the right set of kitchen knives, believe me, there are pitfalls you cannot even imagine…”

She barged ahead, a steady stream of questions and advice kicked loose by his admission and Francesco followed her, hoping with all his heart that he would not need a full day. He had work to get back to and how hard could it possibly be to find a vase or something along those lines anyway?

“Are they expecting?” The shop assistant’s voice tore him out of his reverie.

Francesco stopped dead in his tracks, surprised and a little shocked.

“Not that I know of.” 

“Just asking, you know how some couples are. As soon as there’s a child on the way, the wedding has to be rushed before the bride - you know -” she mimed having a big belly.

“Not that I know of.”

“Good, that excludes the maternity section.”

Francesco’s gaze was caught by the living room decorations. He remembered little of how his parents’ house had been furnished, having been too young and too used to seeing it to really appreciate the décor. A blanket was draped over a plain grey couch set, the dark greens and saffron colours bouncing off each other, separated by lighter shades of blue. It looked like one massive quilt, but when Francesco came closer, he saw that the parts were, in fact, some sort of knit instead of fabric.

“Ah, the crochet blanket. It’s from the new summer collection. We got it in last week. It's a real eye-catcher.”

“It looks a lot like the one we used to take out for picnics in the summer,” Francesco said quietly, but the woman still heard him.

“You could do that, though I personally would say that grass stains are not the easiest to get out of as delicate and soft a thread as this one.”

She picked up a corner of it, thoughtfully rubbing it between her fingers. Her long fingernails did not snag on any fluff or rough patches, much to Francesco’s relief.

“It’s got parts of merino wool, as well as a new high-tech acrylic blend that makes the wool so much softer and nicer to the touch. Perfect for snuggling up under, even with sensitive skin.”

Francesco nodded, absent-mindedly reaching to touch the blanket himself. He remembered the sunny days he and Guglielmo had spent chasing each other around a blanket such as this, while their mother was lounging on it, offering them cold lemonade and fruit to cool down after the exertion. He remembered how his father had playfully tugged on his mother’s locks, how she had thrown a grape at him before kissing him. As a child, these displays of affection had made him uncomfortable, after all, other parents were not this disgustingly soppy in public. But now, almost at the age his parents had had him, and older than them when they had had Guglielmo, he wished he had paid more attention to them that day. 

The shop assistant shifted on her feet and stared at Francesco. He cleared his throat and straightened up, his hand falling off the soft wool.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I take it you’ve decided to take this one?” She was already folding the blanket into a huge, puffy square. She probably regretted having approached him in the first place. Francesco never meant to be weird or impolite, he simply occasionally zoomed out. She was most likely trying to close this sale so that she could rest her feet from those dangerous-looking heels.

“Yes. I’m taking it.”

“Fantastic. Would you like my colleague at the counter to gift-wrap it for you?”

Francesco nodded, then remembered that he could not possibly show up at the office with this huge parcel under his arm. 

“Do you deliver? It’s just - I have to get back to work and this would be inconvenient to transport.”

The shop assistant seemed to suppress a sigh and Francesco was about to take it back, when she said, “Of course. It will cost extra for the delivery, but that will save you the trouble. I know it can be such a pain to haul around huge bags all day long.”

Francesco nodded along and followed her to the till.

“We need your address here. We’ll deposit it in a safe place in case you’re not home,” the cashier said and Francesco scribbled down that they could leave it in front of his apartment door - the least he could do after making them climb all of those stairs. And he most definitely would not be in. Not with work being the way it was.

“Just a signature here, then,” the cashier said and pushed pen and paper towards Francesco. He thanked her and hurried back down the escalator and out into the busy streets of Florence. He had ten minutes to get back to his desk, which meant he had to hurry up if he wanted to eat his sandwich before his lunch break was over. At least he had managed to find a suitable gift for Guglielmo and Bianca. He just hoped it would meet Bianca’s high standards.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quantifying writing can be so diffcult - anyone else found that they spend hours outlining and faffing but hardly write more than 100 words at a time? #writerproblems  
> But now enjoy the new chapter. Let's make things a little more diffcult...

Francesco stood in the doorway of the board room on the upper floor of the Pazzi building, its large stained glass windows filtering the sinking sun into specs of colour against the plain walls. This was to be his first full meeting as a member of the board instead of just being called to speak as an employee. He now supposedly held executive powers. Whether or not there was any actual power to be had was another question. He hoped for the best but braced himself for disappointment. His uncle was, despite all appearances, not about to let go of any of the executive powers. The board, as he had experienced in past meetings where he had presented falsified results, was merely there to sign off Jacopo's orders. Simonetta sat at a small desk in the corner closest to the door, her notepad and tablet in front of her. She was the one taking the meeting notes and sending them out to the participants. She also followed up on all decisions, informing those affected or delegating that task to others where possible.

“Francesco!” Ormando Albizzi, his uncle’s second in command, owner of the largest share of the bank apart from the Pazzi family themselves, waved at him from his seat near the head of the oval table. Francesco nodded at him but took his seat by the far end, where a small name card indicated his place. At least Simonetta’s organisational talents had saved him from the embarrassment of not knowing where to sit.

The board had its traditional seating arrangements and habits, as well as certain formalities that had to be respected and followed. Francesco remembered the small run-down Simonetta had emailed him that afternoon. He had not had enough time to memorise them, but he hoped to be able to get by on what knowledge he had managed to retain. He had also spent some more time getting rid of any ink stains on his face or hands. The one he had not been able to do anything about was the one on the white cuff of his shirt, but wearing his suit jacket took care of that. It was a little warm, especially in the summer sun shining in at full blast, but since most of the other board members wore their linen jackets at the table, he hoped to blend in if he did not first faint from overheating. Air conditioning would apparently ruin the bank, both in architectural and maintenance budget senses.

His back was extremely itchy, trickles of sweat making the entire situation much worse than necessary. Francesco leaned back as much as he could, hoping the fabric of his shirt and the bandages would absorb the droplets running down his spine from the heat and the exertion of working extra hours under the added pressure of responsibility and scrutiny of the older and more experienced board members.  He wishes he could scratch his back, but instead had to resort to chewing his lip as subtly as possible since attempting to bite the inside of his cheek would have meant that his face would be too distorted and give him away.

“Let’s get right to it,” his uncle said before he had even sat down. He was five minutes late but none of the other men commented on it. Francesco, having sworn not to speak up unless he was spoken to, carefully composed his face into a blank mask. “The numbers have somewhat improved but if we want to make a profit this quarter, there are more cuts and acquisitions that have to happen.”

Francesco glanced at the short agenda in front of him. Apart from approvals the board had to give to executive decisions, they were also to discuss boni and the summer wind-down that the bank went through while most of the businesses were on holidays and only the tourism and gastronomy accounts were in heavy usage. Most of Florence fled the city during the hottest months of the year, which meant that employees wanted to take their holidays and less staff would be needed to deal with the daily business.

His uncle went about to outline how strategic cuts to the already decimated staff would save some more money and how a fraction of it would be spent on a campaign to attract more customers - reliant on unpaid marketing photos of the employees and a favour or two from a local photographer who had some outstanding debt with the Pazzi.

Simonetta circulated a ten-page document outlining the steps and Francesco, who had done the calculations attached on the last page, was astonished to see that Jacopo had apparently revised them without consulting him. Francesco had outlined how the pay rise could be counter balanced with the increased revenue from the business accounts. The actual pay rise post-tax, as the new numbers showed, was mostly nominal in nature. No employee would actually earn more. The money was instead cleverly redirected into a company pension scheme that, as far as Francesco was informed, had not existed before. He looked around to see how the other board members took in the new information. Their faces were blank, mostly disinterested and they waved through all of what his uncle proposed to do.

Francesco was astonished to see how these strong, powerful and experienced men cowered before his uncle, sanctioning even the most unreasonable and draconic measures. He knew that Jacopo ruled with an iron fist, but to see these long-standing and respected members of the Florentine society simply nod along like sheep, blindly following Jacopo’s instructions, was soul-crushing.  It was obvious that they did not care about the employees, only about their bonuses at the end of the year.

The meeting stretched, because his uncle made a show of having several members speak up and feign a discussion on minor, unimportant details of the changes.

“And before I forget,” his uncle looked at Francesco, who felt flushed, tired and dizzy, but sat up under Jacopo’s cold stare, “I want to welcome my nephew Francesco into our ranks. As chief financial advisor, he will implement the changes and we have decided that his presence on this board is a welcome new level of accountability. It is the Pazzi bank after all, so allowing for the next generation of Pazzi to leave their mark on the business will toll in a new era of prosperity for the Pazzi bank and our treasured Florentine partners.”

Polite applause sounded and Francesco nodded curtly, accepting the welcome with gritted teeth. The worst part was that he could not disagree openly with his uncle, now less than ever. Having to just go along with whatever was tossed his way aggravated Francesco so much that he had trouble not to show it. He felt his muscles tremble with withheld tension.

And, worst of all, he now had the task of faking an entire pension scheme and deducting hard-earned pay from the other employees’ pay checks. They would, of course, storm his office with questions once the monthly wages were handed out and they saw how Jacopo had effectively conned them into handing back the money he had promised to give them.

After the board meeting was over, with merely an hour left until the bank would be locked up, Francesco barricaded himself inside his office. He leaned his forehead against the cool wall next to the door, still gripping the handle so tightly his knuckles stood out white against his flushed and sweaty skin. He could smell himself, his undershirt was sticking to his body and he wondered in passing how he still managed to contain the anger that boiled in his veins.

He probably had his own exhaustion to blame, otherwise something surely would have been smashed to pieces by now.

Francesco looked down at his other hand, clutching the papers they had been handed at the meeting. He considered burning them publicly outside the bank and the thought consolidated his rage a little.

His conscience, already reeling and tattered by his most recent actions, only whispered a defeated protest before lapsing back into its paralysed silence. He was cornered. He would have to spend hours drawing up paperwork and numbers to match the plan his uncle had already distributed to the members of the board. Francesco considered coming clean, simply picking up the phone and denouncing himself to the police.  He went so far as to research the number of the fraud investigation squad, headed according to their website by a certain Lucrezia Donati, and writing it down. He stuck the note to the bottom of his keyboard. He was not foolish enough to leave his passwords there, but this should be inconspicuous enough so as not to be thrown out by the cleaners. 

He could hand over all of the files, all of the evidence of his and his uncle’s fraudulent activities and they would close the bank, arrest them both and lock them up for a long time. But it would cost the remaining staff their livelihood. Nobody would hire them if it became known that the Pazzi had conned most of Florence of its money. And the Pazzi name would be forever ruined, the heritage of their family destroyed. Not to mention that Francesco would probably have to fear assassination even in a solitary cell in jail. It simply was not an option. He had to do it. He had to keep up the facade of the diligent nephew, especially if he wanted Guglielmo to be able to live as a Pazzi, free and untroubled by their uncle and his own crimes.


	21. Chapter 21

The night before Guglielmo’s wedding, Francesco and Guglielmo’s closest friends, as well as his soon-to-be brothers-in-law gathered at the flat he and Bianca shared, while Bianca spent the night at her parents’ palazzo, as was the custom. Had Guglielmo had any living parents or close family, they would probably have gathered at their place, but since this was not the case, Francesco and the others assembled in the cosy apartment not far from the Market and the Ponte Vecchio.  It could not have been more different from his own, so naturally it read and spoke  _ Bianca and Guglielmo _ wherever one turned. Warm colours, soft furnishings. Happy, goofy pictures on the walls. It was a home.

Cool evening air wafted in through the open windows and Francesco, reluctant to be in company and definitely in need of more sleep if he was to survive the wedding in one piece, carefully leaned back in the armchair Guglielmo had kindly offered him. The Medici brothers were sprawled on the couch and Guglielmo’s friends had taken a seat on the plushy carpet. Guglielmo occupied the other armchair, frequently reminding Giuliano that he did not want to get wasted because he would rather be conscious at his own wedding, thank you very much. The youngest Medici brother, probably still convinced he had to prove himself by outdrinking them all, kept offering people drinks, only to end up downing most of them himself. Soon he would reach the stage where he toasted to odd things, Guglielmo had confided with an amused yet slightly tortured expression. Francesco for one could not wait to witness Giuliano making a fool of himself by flirting with the sofa or, say, the lamp in the corner.

Guglielmo, an impeccable host, much to Francesco’s internal amusement, had laid out some snacks on the coffee table, as well as a load of antipasti and tiny bread rolls with pieces of onion, cheese and olive baked into them.

Francesco nibbled on a roll and observed the happy gathering. The others were busy playing a board game - which Lorenzo seemed to be winning - and he had arrived just after they had started it, so he had every excuse to sit out and have some down time. It was an amusing sight. Lorenzo, with a full poker face, gathering the little tiles he got for scoring points and overseeing that they were counted correctly on the board, while Guglielmo, tipsy but no less competitive than Lorenzo, seemed to be failing spectacularly.

“You have to let the groom win!” he sulked after Lorenzo cleaned up a spot they both had been racing for.

“You won the girl,” Angelo reminded him. As it turned out, Angelo was Angelo Poliziano, or Poli for short. But Francesco preferred to refer to him as Angelo. No offence to the moor man with the unfortunate nickname.

“Exactly,” Lorenzo chimed in. “And besides. This is excellent preparation for how your marriage will be. Bianca plays to win.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I thought I could win at this, just for once!” Guglielmo’s tone was decidedly whiny and Francesco could not suppress a smirk. His brother would never be a good loser, but he was also way too nice to win.

“If Francesco was playing none of you would be this smug,” Guglielmo boasted. Francesco shook his head, he would not be drawn into this.

“Oh really?” Lorenzo grinned. “We should put that to the test.”

“I’m not playing.” Francesco leaned as far back as the armchair and his back allowed, trying to vanish into the fabric of the chair. He had changed after work, the denim trousers and t-shirt oddly soft on his skin. He had thrown on a knit cardigan to hide the bulky plasters now covering the inflamed cuts on his back. The rest were healing well, pieces of scab now itching to be shed, revealing bright purple scar tissue underneath. He looked like an abstract painting, he had decided when changing the plasters that morning. An ugly, deformed painting, but definitely something Lorenzo would exhibit in one of his galleries.

“Come on, he’s won this anyway, we might as well start a new round.” Guglielmo made big eyes at his younger brother, his bottom lip pushed out in a sulky expression. 

“Come on, Francesco, lighten up a little and let me beat you!” Giuliano’s voice was too loud, the alcohol coming into full effect. Francesco wondered briefly if he had rocked up to this gathering already inebriated. 

“No, thank you. I’m too tired to play. Maybe next time.”

“At least help me. I don’t stand a chance against Lorenzo otherwise.” Guglielmo made puppy eyes.  Francesco forced himself to resist the begging and outing until the older Medici brother piped up.

“At least you know it,” Lorenzo said smugly.

That tickled Francesco’s ambition and he sighed, getting up out of his comfortable position. He was warm in his cardigan, but would rather die than take it off, not while everyone was still sober enough to notice anything.

“ But I will only advise,” he relented and dragged his armchair over to Guglielmo.

“But that’s unfair,” Angelo protested.

“You never stood a chance anyway. You don’t have a tactical mind,” Sandro told him with brutal honesty. The others laughed while Angelo sulked.

Guglielmo looked content once Francesco was installed next to him. Lorenzo and Sandro reshuffled the tiles and laid out another game. Giuliano went in search of the bathroom, ignoring Guglielmo’s detailed instructions. They could hear him bumbling into the kitchen on the left, then the bedroom on the right, where he snickered, and finally into the bathroom, where he banged to door shut.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Guglielmo said quietly while the others were busy getting snacks, drinks and game pieces in order.

“I would not miss it for the world.” Francesco returned his brother’s smile, a warm feeling in his chest. Guglielmo radiated, positively glowing with happiness.

“You look tired though. How bad is it?”

Francesco sighed, running a hand across his face, while clutching the glass of red wine more tightly with the other. 

“The board is a mess,” he said, hoping none of the Medici brothers would overhear him. He kept to himself that he was now, more than ever, caught in his uncle’s web of illegal activities, his hands most effectively forced to carry them out. He would also be spending Sunday, the day Guglielmo and Bianca were due to leave for their honeymoon to Bali, catching up on the work he had not managed to get done before the wedding. It would be a long weekend. Francesco only hoped the wedding itself would go smoothly and as Guglielmo and Bianca wished. The last thing they needed was for their special day to be ruined by some stupid incident or mistake. But Francesco had full trust in Lucrezia’s planning abilities. As long as he managed to be the perfectly cheerful best man, things would be fine.

“Maybe you should quit. I’m sure Lorenzo would hire you.”

“That’s nepotism. And he’s a Medici.”

“You are talking about me?” Lorenzo had disappeared behind their chairs, a platter of melon, ham and cheese in his hand. “I found this in the fridge. Can we have some?”

Guglielmo nodded vigorously. 

"I nearly forgot about that. Bianca made it. She thinks we don’t eat healthily enough as it is.”

“And the cheese will surely help,” Francesco commented with a small smile. He remembered Lorenzo's keen nose for snacks that frequently urged him to open other people's fridges and cupboards in pursuit of food. He leaned forward, stretching out his arm and grabbed a piece of melon, wrapped a thin slice of ham around it and popped it into his mouth. The movement had tugged on his back, and for a second he was sure he had winced visibly, but nobody commented.

The game finished with the narrowest of wins for Lorenzo, who must have cheated, as both Francesco and Guglielmo kept protesting. There was no way his numbers added up. Lorenzo just spread his hands in gloating innocence, swearing he played honourably. Francesco snorted into his wine glass and Angelo, half asleep on the floor, added a few pointed insults.

“I better take him home,” Sandro said and pulled Angelo to his feet. They both staggered a little, but if Francesco remembered correctly they did not have a long walk back to Angelo’s place.

Giuliano had, in fact, passed out on the couch, forcing Lorenzo to perch on the armrest since he had refused to relocate during the game.

Guglielmo yawned unabashedly.

“I think you should also get some beauty sleep,” Francesco decided.

“You need it more than I do,” Guglielmo protested but let himself be helped to stand. Lorenzo snickered and Francesco rolled his eyes.

“I’ll get some, don’t you worry.”

He made sure Guglielmo brushed his teeth and was tucked in with a glass of water and an aspirin on his bedside table. He had not drunk much, Francesco had made sure of that after Giuliano had finally worn his brother's resistance down , but better safe than sorry. In hindsight, losing against Lorenzo repeatedly had also not helped to slow his drinking to a manageable pace.

Lorenzo was still in the living room, tidying up, when Francesco returned. Giuliano was peacefully snoring on the sofa.

“I think he’ll happily stay here tonight,” Lorenzo grinned.

“Don’t wake the sleeping beast,” Francesco muttered. “Let me do that.” 

He took a pile of emptied bowls and plates off Lorenzo, who smiled gratefully.

“Your brother is a good person,” Lorenzo said, following Francesco into the kitchen with the glasses he had collected from all over the room.

“He is.” Francesco ran some hot water into the sink and went about washing the dishes.

“As are you.” Lorenzo was leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, studying Francesco. It made him very uncomfortable and he did not know what to respond. “I know I have been too busy lately with work and the wedding to check in on you properly, but I am so glad we are friends again.” 

Lorenzo grabbed a tea towel and began drying off the dishes Francesco was piling up onto the drying rack.

“Me too,” he murmured. And to his surprise, he found it to be true. Lorenzo was self-involved and extroverted and most of the time a smug bastard, but there was something about him that made part of Francesco relax, basking in the illusion of how easy life could be and the charisma that the Medici heir radiated.

“I meant to ask you, what do you think about Clarice? I want your honest opinion.” Lorenzo looked at Francesco with a vulnerability that made the Pazzi consider taking advantage of the situation. Instead, lead by gut instinct and the glass of wine he was no longer used to, he replied, “She is lovely. And I think she loves you. The two of you make a wonderful couple.”

Lorenzo beamed. “She liked you too, you know.”

Francesco shook his head with a tired smile. “She was probably being polite. I am not very good company at the moment.”

“But tomorrow we’ll all be cheerful and friendly and Bianca and Guglielmo are going to have the best wedding Florence has ever seen.”

Francesco might have imagined it, but Lorenzo, too, had let down his guard in that moment, looking tired and worn out. Maybe things were going less smoothly for the Medici than they would let on. It would be just like them to pretend everything was fine when all hell was breaking loose in their business.

“Can you promise me something?” Francesco was not entirely sure what had made him speak up, but now that he had started, he was unable to stop himself. Lorenzo nodded, his eyes questioning what Francesco could possibly mean. “I know I am Guglielmo’s brother, but you are family too, as of tomorrow. Should anything ever happen to me, or should I not be able to be there for him, can you promise me that you will to everything within your power to help him?”

Lorenzo looked as if he wanted to ask for details, but Francesco stopped him with a glare and a gesture. 

“I know this sounds weird, and I’m probably just being paranoid,” he laughed to ease some of the tension and saw with relief that Lorenzo’s easy smile returned, “but please, promise me you’ll be there for Guglielmo. Always and no matter what.”

“Of course.” Lorenzo nodded. “He’s family. You both are. I promise that I’ll take care of you both as I would of my own brother.”

Francesco shook his head, his mouth set in determination. “Not me. I’ll be fine. But Guglielmo has nobody else. He needs a family.”

“Okay,” Lorenzo smiled, visibly uncomfortable with how serious Francesco had become. He squeezed his shoulder and hung the tea towel up to dry. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody loves a nice wedding...

Francesco, normally not one to readily show his emotions, felt a hot burning sensation in his eyes as he watched Bianca Medici walk down the aisle of San Lorenzo, on the arm of a family friend Francesco vaguely recognised from years and years ago due to her father’s early passing, and smiled like the only person that existed in her world was Guglielmo. Francesco’s brother looked impeccable in his suit and definitely had tears in his eyes as he bit his lip to contain a happy sob at the sight of his bride. Father Carlo, coincidentally Bianca’s uncle and the priest conducting the ceremony, seemed on the verge of tearing up too. From the corner of his eye, Francesco saw Lucrezia Medici press a handkerchief to her cheek, while Giuliano squeezed her hand. The youngest Medici had spent the night on Guglielmo's couch but looked fresh as a daisy. Francesco guessed that that was partially owed to a mixture of strong coffee and champagne for breakfast.

Guglielmo had actually been nervous, which Francesco had been completely unable to understand. Of course Bianca would show up and of course she would only have eyes for him. A blind person could have told him that just by the way the air between their bodies turned into static electricity the closer they were to each other.

As expected, the ceremony went without a hitch, Francesco and Bianca’s friend, whose name he probably knew but could not remember for the life of him, followed the couple into the sacristy to sign the marriage certificate, while the other wedding guests filed out of the church, presumably to form an alley for the newly-weds to walk through whilst being showered in confetti.

“Congratulations,” Francesco said and hugged Guglielmo tightly after they had performed their duties as witnesses of the wedding ceremony. Letting his brother go, Francesco turned towards Bianca. She looked stunning and Francesco felt an unusual warmth towards his sister-in-law. She would make Guglielmo the happiest man in the world, there was no doubt about it. The kindness in her eyes told Francesco all he needed to know.

“Welcome to the family,” he joked and kissed her on both cheeks, careful not to touch her artfully arranged curls or makeup. 

“Dito,” Bianca said and squeezed him more tightly than he would have expected from such a slender person.

“Ready?” Guglielmo looked at his wife and held out a hand. They stood just outside the column of daylight that fell through the gap in the heavy church doors. Carlo stood behind one door in his ceremonial habit, smiling and watching the couple with the endless affection all Medici seemed born to dispense freely into the world.

Bianca nodded, stretched to kiss him on the lips and together they left the cool interior of the church, only to be met by loud cheers and church bells rung in their honour. Carlo winked at Francesco before shepherding him and the maid of honour outside as well. 

Francesco paused at the top of the steps leading down to the piazza. Guglielmo and Bianca were being congratulated from all sides, confetti in their hair and love on their laughing faces. From his vantage point, Francesco noticed a lonely figure leaning against the Bande Nere statue at one end of the piazza, covered by the shadow the monument threw. Before Francesco could make a move to confront him, the man disappeared into one of the streets leading towards the Santa Maria. Since he was not wearing his glasses, Francesco could not be certain, but the figure had borne more than a passing resemblance to his uncle. He grit his teeth and set his shoulders. That would be dealt with later. This was Guglielmo and Bianca’s big day. Nothing would ruin it, not as long as it was within his power to make sure of that.

The banquet and subsequent celebrations took place at the Medici palazzo, the courtyard closest to the garden converted into dining space with a dance floor on one side of the open area and the big iron gates to the garden thrown wide open, inviting the wedding guests to take a stroll between the fountains and statues. The weather, as if ordered, was perfect. Blue skies stretched above then and a breeze flowed through the connected courtyards and gardens. The ancient building seemed to keep the party cool, even in the early afternoon heat.

Francesco was swept away by Lucrezia while the guests enjoyed refreshments and champagne. A photographer captured the happy couple in the golden hall, then the garden, by themselves, kissing each other, smiling into the camera and ultimately flanked by their best man and maid of honour. The bride’s family insisted on a family picture, which led to some embarrassment on Guglielmo’s side, until Francesco grudgingly joined him in the shot. He was the only other Pazzi present. Their cousins were distant relations at best and not anywhere near close enough to be invited or even considered. The whole whirlwind of excitement over the couple quickly tired Francesco, who had spent a few hours of the morning pouring over bank documents in the silence of his apartment, before leaving for the wedding. He, in contrast to Guglielmo, had definitely not caught nearly enough sleep. But his duty as best man would be fulfilled once the speeches were done and over with, which was why he considered sneaking away from the party as soon as he could. 

This plan was quickly destroyed, because Lorenzo clung to his side, at least whenever he was not busy flirting with Clarice or bossing servants and staff around. Francesco smirked. He would never have guessed that Lucrezia’s firm manner with their employees would have been passed on to her son so uncannily. 

Finally, everyone was photographed, refreshed and seated at the tables. Francesco, sat on Guglielmo’s left side as was customary, rolled his eyes when Sandro grinned at him from the other end of the table. He knew exactly what Lorenzo’s friend was this amused about. The speech.

Since there was no father of the bride, Lucrezia had the honour of opening the floor herself. She congratulated the couple, embarrassed Bianca and elegantly avoided going into detail about the Pazzi family, much to Francesco’s relief. He felt hot, fiddling with the small piece of paper he had written some notes on. He should have written down the entire speech. It kept slipping from his mind and fumbling for his carefully composed words was the last thing he wanted to do.

Holding speeches had never been his strong suit. He preferred to fade into the background, preferably alone and without anyone even looking his way. He only half-heartedly listened to Lucrezia. 

How come the maid of honour was allowed to give her speech after dinner and he had to do it all beforehand, while everyone was hungry and way to sober for his liking? 

His palms were sweaty. He had spent too much time thinking about what he could say, how he should say it, especially considering that nobody at the wedding really knew him, or Guglielmo for that matter. When Lucrezia had emailed him the order in which the day would be structured - he had no idea where she had gotten his private email address from - he had been more than tempted to respond and request that there would be no best man speech in the first place. 

In the end, the guilt at potentially embarrassing his brother by not holding a speech had outweighed the fear he had of public speaking. A wedding without speeches was not a proper wedding, so he had fretted over what he could possibly say for days.

The guests were laughing at a joke Lucrezia must have just made and Francesco tried to smile without looking completely zoned out. Next to him, Guglielmo kissed Bianca to the cheers of everyone present.

“ To the happy couple, may your marriage be long and prosperous,” Lucrezia finished and they all toasted. Francesco took a sip of champagne. He should have snuck some liquid courage between the photo shoot and the banquet. That might have eased his nerves. He felt the tremors in his legs and hands as he got up. His chest felt restricted, as if he had a target placed on it. He had to clear his throat twice before he felt able to even make a coherent sound.

Guglielmo smiled up at him, encouragingly. Lorenzo did too, as Francesco noticed when he looked towards where Bianca’s family sat on her other side. He took one look at the other guests on their tables and quickly lowered his gaze to his notes. This was not going well. He should have started speaking by this point. Surely the silence was awkward and the guests itching to get up and storm the buffet that was laid out for them.

Francesco cleared his throat again.

“It’s difficult to follow a speech as good as Lucrezia’s,” he said with a shaky smile in her direction. She inclined her head, accepting the compliment. “Normally, from what I have gathered after watching hours of videos of other people’s speeches, the best man is supposed to ruin the groom’s reputation while congratulating him on how lucky a man he is.”

Some guests chuckled, but the majority remained quiet. Francesco took a deep breath.

“I’m not good with speeches, so this will be short. And I will try not to embarrass you, Guglielmo. After all, I am the younger brother and having spent the first thirteen years of my life pestering you should be sufficient.”

Guglielmo chuckled.

“I would like to congratulate you. Bianca Medici, from what I have had the pleasure to learn about her, is a loving, kind and generous person. Bianca,” he said, glancing at his sister-in-law who smiled back at him, “I am certain, as I am of little else in life, that you are the best thing that has ever happened to my brother. I am sure we all can see by the soppy look on his face how smitten he is to be able to call you his wife. If he ever fails to carry you on his hands, tell me and I will kick his arse.”

Lorenzo’s loud laugh was audible above the polite chuckles, while Giuliano whooped and, for once, seconded the promise.

“I would like to wish the two of you all the best. You deserve all the happiness in the world, and by marrying each other, I think you have just invited heaven into your lives. Guglielmo, I am sure that our parents are smiling down on you, as proud of the man you have become as I am.”

Guglielmo dabbed at his eyes, as did Lucrezia, who had known their parents personally.  
“I would like to finish by saying that, as your best man, you can always count on me to carry you both through your marriage, but as we all can see, you two are already doing a perfect job at it. Congratulations, Bianca and Guglielmo, may your marriage be a long and happy one.”

Francesco raised a glass, his hand still shaking, and slumped back down into his chair, his head probably the colour of an overripe tomato. 

“Thank you,” Guglielmo whispered while Lucrezia declared the buffet to be open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The year is almost over - incredible!  
> I did not know this time last year that I would write a 56,000+ words fanfic. I am glad I did.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a good year of 2021!
> 
> We are over 2/3 through this... I hope you are still on board and .. well... enjoying. As much as that can be a thing. Because we all know what happens at this point in a story.
> 
> Stay safe x

Francesco glanced over his shoulder. The party was in full swing, people were dancing and meandering through the grand courtyards of the palazzo.  The summer air was a bit stuffy from the mass of bodies and the smells of wine, food and perfume. Francesco had pushed his way through the crowd around the enormous wedding cake and nearly collided with a vase of pink flowers on a stand when he had crossed the courtyard's edge to reach the gate. 

Burly security men kept curious tourists from entering through the doors to the street, cranked open so smokers and early leavers could vacate the premises at any time. Francesco guessed that the Medici must also have struck a deal with the local fire department. No way they would have allowed a gathering of this size without proper fire exits.

He snuck out through just that large door, inhaling the cool night air out in the street. It had become disproportionally warm inside the courtyard, through the sheer number of people and the intense dancing the younger ones were up to. Francesco remembered catching a glimpse of Sandro and one of Bianca’s friends dancing so frantically that a safety zone of about a metre had been cleared around them, nobody keen to be hit by flailing limbs.

It was quiet, the bass of the music and the noise of the guests dampened by the ancient walls of the palazzo. Francesco closed his eyes, dizzy with the rush of oxygen and exhaustion that swept over him. He considered leaving the premises altogether, but he had promised Guglielmo to stay at least another hour, his brother tipsy with happiness and possibly out of his depth as the only Pazzi amongst so many Medici. Having his own friends as backup was not improving the headcount on the Pazzi side of things by much.

“Having a good time?”

The voice so close to his ear was cold and so awfully familiar. A shiver ran down his spine from where the person's breath touched him. Francesco jumped, taking a big step to bring some distance between himself and his uncle, who had appeared next to him. Francesco briefly wondered if he had hung around the entire evening, waiting to intercept him or his brother should one of them set a foot outside the palazzo.

“I do not owe you accountability.” Francesco’s voice was cool, the tremor he felt in his entire body merely an undertone. He wondered if it was the alcohol that made him so bold.

“Oh but you do. You acted against my specific instructions.” His uncle smiled, but there was no kindness in it. 

Francesco’s courage crumbled, leaving him holding on to the pieces that were left: his need to shield Guglielmo from whatever Jacopo had come here to say or do and his own survival instinct, worn down as it was. He would not have been able to say whether or not being among the crowd of wedding guests had made him happy, he probably would have pointed out how anxious it had made him, but here and now, he realised how much better it was than the darkness and terror he felt every day.

“I work for you. You do not own me in the hours I am not working. I am free to choose.” Francesco’s voice trembled but he grit his teeth to be able to utter the words at all.

“See, you are wrong again.” Jacopo stood so close that their foreheads nearly touched. Francesco was shrinking by the second. He desperately wanted to turn away, to avert his gaze, to run back inside and hide behind the safe walls of the palazzo, but he was frozen to the spot, his back against the wall, his feet on the pavement, his uncle shielding his body from curious passers-by. If only the sturdy ancient walls would swallow him.

“Do you really think they can give you more than I? Did they promise friendship? Did they promise to take care for you? But at what cost? You work in a bank yet your mind is utterly devoid of basic business instincts. Everything these people do has a price. Are you sure you will be able to pay it? Just look at your brother. He has already given up his proud heritage. I am surprised they did not make him change his name. He is a Medici now. Just you wait, they will soon come knocking, asking you for favours in return for their protection. Don’t you think you are much better off being with your own family? All the Medici do is lie and deflect. All this beauty and splendour,” his uncle made a gesture to encompass the palazzo and the party within, “just serves a purpose. Nothing is free when you’re dealing with the Medici. I am warning you.”

“You should not have taken the trouble to come here just to say this, uncle,” Francesco said as icily as he could. The building was cool against his overheated body and grounded him. Maybe it was the walls pushing back, holding him up and strengthening his resolve. He was always more confident in his skin when the ancient stones were close. “I can look out for myself.”

“I could have left you to the wolves, but I care about our family,” Jacopo replied. “And I am sure you care about your brother. It would be such a shame should something happen to him or his darling Medici wife tonight while they are sleeping off their wedding daze in the hotel. Santa Maria Novella - the Medici like to live in splendour, don’t they?”

Francesco inhaled sharply. He had thought that the location Guglielmo and Bianca were to spend their wedding night before departing for the airport the next morning had been kept quiet. Lucrezia had the sense not to let this kind of information slip into the wrong hands. Especially considering their families' rivalry. How was his uncle already informed about it?

“You would not dare,” he snarled.  Suddenly, he found himself breathing quickly, adrenaline pulsing through his body and giving him new strength. Being the subject of his uncle’s rage was one thing, having unveiled threats directed at his brother was an entirely different matter altogether.

“You really think  _ I _ would do anything?” His uncle spread his arms and took a step back, the smile on his lips feigning innocence. “I am only pronouncing a courteous warning.”

With a single step, his uncle was in front of Francesco again, grabbing him by the neck and pressing him into the wall. His breath was hot on Francesco’s face but he could not smell any alcohol in it. His uncle was sober and fully in charge of his actions. It made him all the more dangerous. The pressure once more began to obstruct Francesco's windpipe. His quick breaths turned into gasps for air.

“If you try to interfere, if you ever pass on any information to the Medici, you will suffer a similar fate.”

Francesco gasped for oxygen, small specks of spittle had landed on his face and the knowledge and feeling of the moisture on his skin made his stomach cramp. Suddenly, his throat was freed and he staggered, reaching a hand to steady himself against the wall.

“Is there a problem?” Lorenzo stood by the door, arms crossed, while one of the security men held Jacopo in a tight armlock. 

“I just came to congratulate the happy couple,” Francesco’s uncle said and shook off the guard. Jacopo straightened his ruffled suit with a deliberately casual air.

“I will pass on your congratulations. If you would not mind carrying on, this is a closed party.” Lorenzo’s voice was icy. Francesco stared in awe from the Medici to his uncle, who shrugged nonchalantly and sauntered away down the road.

“Health and happiness,” he said over his shoulder and waved, not bothering to even look at Francesco.

“Are you okay?” The calm in Lorenzo’s voice had disappeared entirely. Francesco rubbed his throat and nodded, clearing his throat with a brief cough. 

“Sorry about that.”

Lorenzo looked at him, head cocked to the side.

“Why would you apologise for what he did?”

Francesco lowered his eyes, unable to hold Lorenzo’s imploring gaze. The last thing he needed was more scrutiny and surveillance.

“Because I provoked him. Aren’t you needed back at the party?” Francesco said more gruffly than he probably should have, judging by the look of hurt that flickered across Lorenzo’s face for a split second. 

“You were gone for quite a while. Guglielmo was concerned.” Lorenzo turned on his heels and walked back inside, apparently expecting Francesco to follow him. His uncle’s words rang inside his head like an echo.  _ They are just using you. _

“They’ll be off to the hotel soon,” he caught Lorenzo saying. Francesco’s head jerked in Guglielmo’s direction, involuntarily.

“ I will be going too, then,” he said absent-mindedly. His uncle’s threat was drowning out all other noises around him. The bass of the music, the chatter and laughter, Lorenzo’s voice, even his own thoughts. He was rattled, he noticed with detached intrigue, by what Jacopo had said. He did not know what his uncle was capable of, he realised, even after all of these years. Surely he would never dare to act in public, but then there was so much to be done in secret, to be arranged without leaving a trace. Francesco felt panic pump through his system, fear that something, anything, could happen to his brother. It was more real and tangible than ever before. If only there was a way for him to make sure nothing would happen, to intercept whatever Jacopo might have planned. Francesco considered telling Guglielmo. But then he would have to explain so much, all the things he had hidden from his brother for all of these years, and it would most certainly ruin the wedding. No way he would risk that bubble of happiness they were temporarily in. He would rather throw himself in the way of whatever Jacopo had in store for them than risk Guglielmo finding out about all of the secrets he had kept.

“They’re taking the limousine there, aren’t they?” he said, interrupting Lorenzo mid-sentence.

“Yes. It will be here in a few minutes. It probably takes longer to drive than to walk, but mother insisted on maximum pomp and glamour, so the car it is.”

“Good.” Francesco turned and left Lorenzo where he was. He had to see them off and beat them to the hotel. If he made sure no people came on or out while Guglielmo and Bianca were in their suite, surely that would take care of any plots Jacopo might have planned. If he had planted anything suspicious in the room, Francesco determined that as the brother of the groom and the best man, he would be entitled to do a quick sweep, just to make sure. After all, people played pranks on newly-weds all the time, why should he not get access to the room to set up some fish in the bathtub or the like? Never mind how silly the custom was. Any excuse would do.


	24. Chapter 24

Waving Guglielmo and Bianca off should have felt good. It should have meant sending them into their new life as a married couple instead of what he feared might be towards their doom. At least that was what Francesco thought as he stood in front of the Medici palazzo, among the crowd of wedding guests waving after the limousine as it glided through the narrow streets of nightly Florence. He had struggled not to show any panic or emotion on his face, instead reverting to as blank of an expression as he could. Looking reserved was by any means better than looking terrified or worried. And the last thing he had wanted to do as he hugged Guglielmo and kissed Bianca on both cheeks was to betray his inner turmoil to them. He felt Lorenzo’s heavy gaze on his back as he pushed his way through the crowd, his steps gaining in length and speed as he rushed towards the hotel the couple would be spending their wedding night at. He knew enough shortcuts and one-way streets to be able to at least beat them there. The issue would be not being caught by them or barred from entering the suite by the hotel’s employees.

Never before had he prayed for red traffic lights and roadworks as much as in these panic-stricken minutes spent crossing half of Florence on foot. Out of breath and sweating despite the cool night air, he arrived at Santa Maria Novella. The grand hotel loomed like a palazzo. Chandeliers were glistening through the windows and in the bustle of modern Florence, it appeared like a relic of older, grander times. Francesco pulled open the glass door and entered the marble and polished-brass foyer. He took a deep breath before approaching the concierge.

“I am with the wedding party arriving soon,” he panted. “Pazzi or Medici.”

The concierge raised an eyebrow.

“I am unable to give you any information regarding our guests.”

“Here,” Francesco pulled his ID from his pocket. “I am the brother of the groom. And I wanted to, you know, leave a surprise for them. They are on their way, so I’d appreciate it if you would let me go in and hurry, I don’t want the surprise to be spoiled.”

The concierge still looked doubtful and Francesco strained to produce as charming a smile as he was capable of. He patted himself down demonstratively. 

“You know how things are. I promise, no fish are involved. No hidden surprises that could reflect badly no this wonderful establishment. The wedding night should be special and I just want to-”

Apparently tired by his insistence and convinced by his proof of ID - so they had used Guglielmo’s last name in the booking - the concierge handed him a key card.

“But I need it back in ten minutes.”

Francesco nodded and thanked him. He ran up the stairs, not wanting to wait for the lift, and found the right door. He slipped the key card into the slot. The light went red and Francesco nearly hit the door in frustration. He checked the number. It was the right door, unless the concierge had been lying. That was an option, but not one he wanted to consider. He tried again, waiting an extra few seconds this time. The light went green and he pushed the door open, sighing with relief. 

The room was immaculate. Rose petals on the bed, champagne in the cooler, candles ready to be lit. Francesco considered lighting the candles, as an excuse for his presence but decided against it. There was too much danger of accidentally burning down the place.

He checked the bathroom and the wardrobes, the alcove where the windows were and all the heavy drapes. The room was regal, a large four-poster bed dominating the space. Nothing suspicious, no hidden devices as far as he could tell. Francesco decided to return the key, hoping to miss Guglielmo and Bianca’s arrival. The concierge would hopefully not rat him out to them. It would not be a surprise to him if he did. 

He took the stairs once more. Bianca would surely insist on taking the lift, so there was less chance of running into them on his way down. The lobby was clear when he arrived, the concierge smiling at him.

“All sorted,” Francesco passed the key card back to him.

“They are on their way up now,” the concierge said with a small smile. “Perfect timing.” 

“Thanks for your help. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. And don’t worry. No fish in the tub.”

The concierge forced a laugh and Francesco nodded, turning to leave the lobby.

Then he paused. What if someone came in later, with a similar idea as he had had. He needed to make sure nobody that was not a guest entered or left the hotel from now until the morning. Francesco let his gaze wander.

“Is there a bar? I could do with a drink..” 

The concierge nodded and pointed him towards a set of glass double doors through which, indeed, a bar could be seen. The perfect vantage point. Until he got kicked out, that was. But then he would just have to stay outside, with his eyes on the entrance until he was absolutely sure nobody had slipped past him.

“A double coffee, please,” he ordered from the barman, slumping down on the only bar stool facing the lobby. The bar was all dark leather and polished wood with the same brass furnishings as in the lobby. It smelled faintly of coffee and expensive whisky. Francesco felt worn out, his mind swimming from the panic and rush of adrenaline that was now quickly subsiding. Caffeine would pick him back up, he hoped. He spotted a small menu on a chalkboard and pointed. “Do you still serve?”

The barman nodded. He was lucky that this seemed to be one of those establishments in which the customer was, indeed, king. Francesco ordered a small plate of olives and some overpriced bread to go with it. Some food might help settle his stomach and nerves and he had not exactly splurged on the buffet at the wedding party - too nervous and overwhelmed with the choice and the amount of people. After his uncle’s appearance, he had been unable to do anything other than run worst-case scenarios in his head. Dessert or snacking had been the least of his problems. But if he wanted his body to cope with the long night and the amount of hours he needed to work tomorrow, some sustenance was necessary.

He never let the lobby out of sight, even while eating, always focused on what was happening from the corner of his eye. Luckily, little in terms of people passed through and all of them seemed not only respectable but familiar with the concierge, collecting their keys upon sight. No lengthy conversation before the hand-over. That meant they were actual guests, surely.

The barman kept checking his watch. It was well after 3am. Francesco got the hint. He paid, picked up his suit jacket and left the bar. He nodded Goodnight to the concierge and left the lobby. The air outside was cold, the skies above Florence probably cloudless but invisible due to the light pollution. Francesco sat on a bench in the square in front of the hotel. A police patrol passed by but ignored him. Had he worn anything but his best suit, they would probably have stopped to question him or even sent him home. He fought off sleep by bouncing his legs, alternating between left and right. The hours ticked by slowly and dawn began creeping up, the sky getting lighter and lighter. Francesco yawned. He felt wretched. But he had made it. Unless of course someone had snuck in through the back entrance. Or come from another room. Francesco coursed, suddenly wide awake from the shock of the possibilities he had not considered thus far. Should he go in and check on them? What if they were still asleep? Their flight was quite early, he remembered. So maybe they would be having an early breakfast. Francesco stretched his arms over his head. His spine popped. He felt stiff and cold. Just a few more minutes. Until they had left the hotel. Until he had seen for himself that Guglielmo and Bianca were fine.


	25. Chapter 25

_ Bali is awesome. _

Guglielmo had attached a picture of himself and Bianca in swimming gear, surrounded by more green foliage than Francesco had ever seen in his life. He smiled to himself and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

It was Monday morning, he was in his office and, thus far undisturbed, finishing the outstanding changes to the fraudulent pension system his uncle had conjured into being. Guglielmo’s text was about the only thing that could possibly have produced a smile. Other than that, he felt like throwing things against walls in frustration. The wrongness of it all had begun to get to him. The few hours of sleep he had managed to catch the previous night - body and mind exhausted from the wedding and the day spent pouring over figures and percentages - had been filled with fragments of nightmares and a lot of tossing and turning, twisting the sheets around his sweaty body. He must have scratched open some of the scabs on his back, because there were rust-coloured stains on the sheets and his skin felt more taut. His uncle’s threats still rang in his ears. Even while they were halfway around the globe, a safe distance one should assume, he feared for Guglielmo’s and Bianca’s lives. 

Never, as far as he knew, had Jacopo killed anyone. But he always went through with his threats and promises. So why should he not do so this time? Francesco was certain that his uncle had something in hand against his brother and was finally willing to play it in his own favour. If only Francesco knew how to prevent it.

He had received several texts from Lorenzo the previous day, but had ignored every single one of them. If the Medici had caught the slightest hint of what was going on behind the cold walls of the Pazzi bank, he would find a way of learning the truth that did not involve Francesco. He always seemed to get what he wanted. In a way, that did not make him much different from Jacopo. Except that, in Lorenzo’s case, Francesco was somewhat sure that he actually tried to do good. Not that he himself had much to show for his own actions.

Francesco buried his head in his hands, biting his lip until he tasted blood. How could he impose on his colleagues, people who had by sheer force of will and hard work helped him through his years of slaving away for his uncle, the new fraudulent scheme his uncle had devised to divert their pay rise back into the bank's coffers. Cheating them out of their meagre earnings was wrong. As wrong as it could get. But Francesco also knew that he had no choice. It was this or his brother’s life. His own did not matter much, as Jacopo had probably gathered at this point, which is why he had chosen Guglielmo as his target instead. It was one tangled, horrible mess.

If the fraud prosecution ever found out about this, it was not only Jacopo who would go down, but he would drag Francesco with him. With every crime Francesco committed in the name of the Pazzi, he entangled himself further. There was no way to wash it off his own hands.

Francesco froze. A thought struck him like a bolt of icy lightning. What if the fraud squad found out indeed? It was unthinkable, unspeakable, to even consider it. His name, his family’s business, its pride and treasure, would be ruined. For ever. And Francesco would go to jail, probably even for longer than Jacopo. Without a doubt, his uncle would have insured himself against being incriminated by his nephew’s actions. After all, telling Francesco to fix things and making him commit fraud were two entirely different things.

But he had handed him a table of false figures and a concept of how to set up a fraudulent pension scheme. It bore his name. The board had seen it. 

But would he really dare to destroy decades, of not centuries of work his ancestors had given their lives for? And what if he failed? Mercy was not a part of his uncle’s vocabulary and a betrayal of this magnitude was unheard of. Francesco would not survive, the thought was surprisingly pain-free. It was a fact, he found with a calm sense of detachment. 

He did not know the full legal base on which fraud of this magnitude would be judged, but if what he remembered from his days at university was added up nearly correctly, he might be locked away for life regardless. Surely a life in prison was better than no life at all.

But Guglielmo. Guglielmo would be heartbroken. And Francesco could not do that to his brother. Especially not now, when he had finally found a place where he belonged and a family that welcomed him with open arms. The very name of his family would be forever tainted. 

He did have enough evidence, he thought, scrolling through his emails. There were signs in his uncle’s curt and impersonal messages. And he had his own memory. His own actions that spoke volumes. Would handing himself over for the greater good really be the only solution to the never-ending feud Jacopo had against the Medici and his own nephews?

Francesco got out of his chair. His back, fresh scar tissue a purple maze over the silvery old one, was stiff and popped when he arched his spine. He found an empty document pouch which he had intended to discard in the bin. The cardboard was frayed at the edges, but by sheer force of will it still held together.

He looked around, searching for documents he knew had to be there but were lost in the general mess the past weeks of hyperactivity had left his office in. He had long given up trying to find anything or even make room on the overloaded shelves for all the pages and files and folders. If he began collecting copies of things, he might be able to simply send a parcel one day. Who would suspect a thick envelope to contain anything other than business documents? He would even be able to photocopy as much as he needed. He was the new board member, the heir, he had access to everything now. He was the accountant, and finances were their business. If anyone had the key to the bank's rotten heart, it was him. He just had to keep up the act of the repentant nephew long enough to gather all the information he needed to condemn himself and his uncle.

He would have to sever his ties with Lorenzo. He would have to make his uncle believe that he was fully committed to the business. It would not be easy, not after the events of the wedding and not with the hatred Francesco felt towards Jacopo now that Guglielmo’s life was part of the gamble, but it had to be done. It was the only way. No more contact with the Medici family. No more incidences or causes for mistrust. Who could do this, if not him?


	26. Chapter 26

“I will end the Medici, the whole bloody house, their name will be expunged from history!” 

His uncle’s voice rang through the empty corridors of the Pazzi bank and Francesco stood while his uncle’s rage bore down on him like a torrent, unmoving, unflinching, his eyes nearly closed to the world, waiting for it all to end. At least he hoped to look like it on the outside. Internally, he was howling and scratching at himself, at his situation, at this unfair injustice and prejudice.

“Don’t you dare think even for one moment that what you have done to me, to your family, will go without consequences! Your brother and this whole rotten pack will pay for it!”

His uncle stormed off, leaving Francesco where he was, rooted to his spot in the middle of the cold hallway while the summer sun was setting outside. The building was completely silent once Francesco heard the main door slam shut behind Jacopo. Only when the echo had faded did he dare breathe.

His uncle had avoided him for almost two days, but then, just as Francesco thought he might be able to finish early for the first time in months, he had caught him in the corridor, on his way back from the copying machine, and unleashed his anger onto him.

Francesco realised that he had begun to tremble, his muscles struggling to comply when he ordered them to carry him back to his office, to do yet more work. At least his file, the file he had been sneaking proof into, was safe. His uncle had not even taken a single look at the bunch of papers he was holding. Had he noticed what they were, Francesco was certain that he would not have gotten out of it without so much as a hair out of place. 

He leaned his forehead against the cool wall, his fingers not yet compliant enough to manage the door handle. At least nobody could see him in this state. The building was deserted, everyone had gone home for the night and his uncle, later than usual, had been the last person to leave.

Francesco still did not know how his uncle intended to take his revenge on the Medici, but all the signs were pointing towards a more violent and destructive solution than he had ever known Jacopo to consider before.

“Do you need some water?”

The voice almost made him jump out of his skin.

“Simonetta. I’m sorry. I thought I was alone.” Francesco stood up straight and smiled at his uncle’s secretary in what he hoped to be an apologetic and calm manner.

“You need to go through with it,” she said and Francesco blinked confusedly.

“I’m sorry?”

“That file of yours. It has to land in the right hands, do you understand?”

“How do you-”

“You uncle has paid me without fail for my work all these years and I am loyal to the person that helps me put food on the table,” Simonetta continued, ignoring Francesco’s interjection. “But there is a point at which loyalty ends and human decency takes precedence. Umberto was in the line at the food bank today. I saw him. And your uncle has been hatching plots with the wrong sort of people. The kind that do not play games or show mercy.”

She lowered her voice even further.

“I do not know any details, but I know that his anger against your brother’s wife and her family is driving him. And this time I am afraid he will not be stopped.”

“This time?” Francesco felt numb and utterly, entirely confused. Simonetta waved his question off.

“He’ll strike against the Medici and against Florence. This bank will not be able to survive the consequences, no matter how much you bend yourself or the law, there is no way we are getting out of this alive. I should have acted years ago, but there is always this reassurance that he will take care of my family, my children and my grandchildren.”

Simonetta looked guilt-stricken for a moment, her face a mask of pain and regret.

“I don’t know how you know all of this-” Francesco ran a nervous hand through his hair. 

“You need to act now, while your brother is out of town, out of harm’s way.” His uncle’s secretary smiled up at Francesco, a sad, pitiful smile on her worn face. “You are brave. Braver than he thinks. I am sorry that you have to put yourself through all of this. But it is for the greater good.”

She put a hand to Francesco’s cheek, He leaned into the tender gesture. Nobody had touched him like this in years.

“I know what I am doing,” he said when he broke their contact, standing up straight and tall once more.

“I hope you do, God be with you,” he heard her mutter as she walked down the empty corridor, her small heels clacking on the marble floor.

Francesco entered his office, resolve pulsing like adrenaline through his system. He produced the file from his locked drawer and added the papers he had been holding in his hands. It would be enough. It had to be enough. 

He pulled his phone out of his bag. He had not dared keep it on his person, so as not to give his uncle any more reason to turn against him or be suspicious.

_ Promise you will take care of Guglielmo. _

He put the phone down on his desk, now almost frantic in his movements. Pulling more files from his shelves, his mind racing, he searched for more evidence, more numbers, more truth he had worked so hard to cover up. It was his life’s work, he thought with a tinge of sadness. All of these numbers, pages and pages of them, and so much of them wrong, tampered with on his uncle’s behalf. For the good of the business. For the good of the family.

Francesco felt with calm certainty that what he was about to do was the best thing he had done in all the years he had worked for this bank. The Pazzi would no longer exist once the truth had come out. But if it meant that he could save Guglielmo, and Bianca and her family, Lorenzo and even Giuliano, Francesco was ready not only to hand over his life’s work, but his life.

It was almost ironic. Here he was, ready to destroy everything he had believed in and worked for for so long, only to save the Medici, the very people his uncle had tried to make him hate for so long. But they were loving and happy and generous, they had accepted Guglielmo into their family and even offered Francesco to become a part of it as well. Of course, after this day, he never would.

His phone buzzed on his desk.

_ Yes of course, but what on earth are you on about? _

Francesco put it back down. It buzzed again.

_ Don’t you dare ignore me, Francesco. You are becoming more cryptical by the second. Answer my messages. Please. _

Francesco smiled wistfully. Maybe, in another life, he would have enjoyed getting to know Lorenzo, spending time with him and lapping up some of the ease with which he seemed to take everything in his stride. But this was not the time nor the place. He had his task to fulfil and Lorenzo was charged with dealing with the aftermath and telling the story, a survivor, hopefully forever unaware of the catastrophe he had missed so narrowly.

Francesco slipped the file into his bag and grabbed his phone. He stared at the seal of the Pazzi family as he dialled the number into his phone, referencing the small slip of paper he had hidden under his keyboard. Hopefully Investigator Donati, whose face flashed before his eyes when he read her name over and over, was still in her office. He had no idea how to proceed should she have gone home already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say I am sorry, but am I really?


	27. Chapter 27

“I have proof that the Jacopo Pazzi is committing fraud, breeches financial fair-play rules and violates employment law.”

“Who am I speaking with?” The voice was eerily familiar.

“Francesco Pazzi. I am in my office and ready to hand over all the evidence you will need for a conviction.”

“You are entangled?” Francesco slowly remembered the face that belonged to that voice. The dark hair. The scent of her perfume.

“Of course I am.”

“Stay where you are, I will deploy a team.”

“The doors are open.”

Francesco hung up. Her voice on the landline was different from how he remembered. Less sultry, more factual. The voice of a hard-working, analytical investigator. Not that of a seductive stranger in a bar.

He leaned back in his chair. The wounds on his back were nearly healed over. He took a deep breath, the musty air cool in his lungs. He realised that he was sweating. Focusing on his feet on the floor and the coldness radiating from the marble floor and the stone walls helped a little. He had a tremor in his leg, his knee bobbed up and down. It made his chair squeak softly. He got up and paced the small room. Hopefully this was enough to get rid of Jacopo once and for all. To make sure he could spend the rest of his life in the knowledge that Guglielmo was finally safe.

He did not know how much time had passed, but several times he thought he had heard the large doors open only for the silence to be as loud as before, if not worse. They were taking their time.

He was just moving the thick file about on his desk, the angle never quite satisfactory, when he heard steps in the hallway. It was too late for him to leave his office, but since she knew his name, she would without doubt be able to find him. There was a sign next to his door that read his name after all.

“Fraud, eh?”

Francesco shot around at the icy sound of his uncle’s voice coming from the open door. Jacopo was leaning in the doorway. Outside, Francesco spotted what seemed to be the back of a rather large and broad-shouldered man with shortly shaved hair. He did not look familiar, but Francesco was too busy keeping it together to ponder on this new acquaintance of his uncle's.

“Excuse me?” Francesco tried to look calm, positioning himself in front of the file, so obvious on his otherwise nearly empty desk.

“Of all the people who would rat me out to the police, I never thought it would be you who had the guts to go through with it.”

Francesco felt the colour drain from his face. His uncle shut the door, quietly and almost gently.

“I didn’t-”

“Don’t bother with your lies and excuses. Do you really think I don’t control all communications here? Do you really think I haven’t noticed you sneaking around, hamstering evidence,” he made air quotes around the word, “like some undercover cop on a mission. Tell me, how much are they paying you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Francesco’s knees were shaking but his voice was steady. He felt sweat build between his shoulder blades and on his temples. His mouth was dry.

“Your little friend at the fraud squad. How much is she paying you? Or do you get a get-out-of-jail-free card?”

Francesco laughed. He could not help himself. He laughed while his uncle looked confused, then surprised and finally, more than ever, angry.

“They don’t pay me. I am doing this to get rid of you.” Francesco was breathing hard. 

“Then you’ll be the one going to jail,” Jacopo said smugly.

“Oh, I know. But I’m taking you down with me. I have it all here. All the evidence. Every single number, every email, every file you handed me with instructions on how to change it and what to make disappear.”

His uncle did not pale this time. Instead, he was in front of Francesco in two quick steps and the echo of the slap he gave his nephew echoed off the walls before Francesco even felt the pain, his head whipping to the side with the force of the blow. He staggered and brought his hand to his cheek.

“You are a traitor. A shame to this family.” Jacopo’s face was a mask of fury. Francesco realised belatedly that he had never thought his uncle was unhinged until this moment. He seemed to be a different person, fuelled by rage and hatred instead of ambition. What ever it was that had made him hold back on his nephew, human decency, family resemblance, did not matter any longer.

“You can bug my phone. You can beat me and threaten me and humiliate me, but this time you are going down.” Francesco grit his teeth, both against the pain and to steel himself. Facing down his uncle’s anger was unfamiliar. He would always have sought to disperse it, to shrink away from it, but now he welcomed it with open arms. The knowledge that he had finally struck, finally landed the retaliating blow, the destructive blow, made him reckless in his ecstasy.

“You will pay for this,” his uncle said, walking over to the door. He opened it a crack and spoke to the huge man outside. “Don’t let anyone in.”

Francesco’s eyes flickered to the window. But the iron bars would not allow for an escape that way. And he had told the police that he would be in his office. He needed to stall.

He moved to stand behind the desk, bringing as much distance between his uncle and himself as he could.

“You can’t do this anymore. They will catch you.”

His uncle smiled, calm and collected. It was infuriating.

“I will be long gone by the time anyone shows up here. And you won’t be in a state to talk.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over the hook on the office door where Francesco normally kept his rain coat during the cold months of the year. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves.

“You can’t-” Francesco felt the cold wall against his back, he could not retreat any further.

“Oh but I can.” Jacopo walked around the desk and Francesco, frozen where he was, his body no longer complying, briefly thought that maybe, if he wished hard enough, he would be able to wake up. This was too similar to his nightmares to be real. He had to be asleep. Wake up.  _ Wake up. _

Jacopo’s hand, surprisingly warm but no less iron with its grip, closed around his throat. He squeezed. Not enough to fully close off Francesco’s airway, but enough to make him gasp and get dizzy after a short while. Francesco clawed at his uncle’s hand, but he did not seem to notice. Instead, he dragged his nephew out from behind the desk and into the open space in front of it.

When he finally let go, Francesco fell to the floor, coughing and wheezing. Before he could sit up, let alone stand, he saw his uncle pick up the visitor’s chair, its metal frame gleaming in the evening light, and swing it toward him.

Francesco was hit in the ribs, the impact sending him sprawling on the floor once more. Every breath hurt, both in his throat and in his chest. Before he could assess the damage, the chair came down again, connecting painfully with his temple. He would have passed out, had the wall not broken some of the swing. The chair rang out like a bell when its other side hit the stone. Pieces of mortar and paint crumbled down onto the marble floor.

His vision went blurry and slightly scarlet. On top of the pain, something hot was running down the side of his face. His uncle’s shoe hit him in the stomach, underneath his ribcage, pushing into the softness of Francesco’s skin and the organs underneath. There had never been much fat to protect it, but now there was none and not enough muscle besides.

“You have betrayed our family. You are no longer worthy to call yourself a Pazzi. You will pay for this. Your brother will pay for this.” Every sentence was followed by another kick. Finally, when he had finished and was panting, Francesco tried to take a breath. It hurt. He had curled into a ball, trying to protect himself from the assault.

_ Wake up, Francesco. Wake up. _

When the chair came down on him again, Francesco welcomed the darkness it brought with it. His body was on fire. He felt as if his skin was being pulled off his bones to be turned inside out.

_ Wake up.  _

Someone was shaking him, hitting his face less than gently. He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed glued shut, immobile. 

_ Wake up. _

He tried to speak, an inhuman groan the only thing he could hear clearly through the high-pitched sinus ringing in his ears. 

_ Call an ambulance. Wake up, Francesco. Stay with me. _

He knew that voice. He had heard it before. Francesco wondered with an odd sense of detachment, why he could no longer feel his limbs. Where they had ached and been on fire moments before, there was only cold now and heaviness. 

Through a small slit between his eyelids, he saw a person, a person in a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, being restrained by several other people. So they had got Jacopo after all.

Francesco smiled. Guglielmo was safe. Finally.

_ Wake up, Francesco. _

_ Where is the ambulance? _

He did not drift off into darkness. It just wrapped itself around him like a warm embrace.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comment.
> 
> A quick note: I am no expert on the Italian justice and prosecution systems, so take this as a complete and utter piece of fiction and imagination.
> 
> Thanks for reading my work!

He was warm, supported, comfortable, but not smothered or overheated. His throat way dry and ached a little and he felt rather drowsy. Francesco opened his eyes, blinking until he could tell that the pale wall he was staring at was, in fact, a wall and not a cloud.

“Welcome back,” an amused voice said. Francesco tried to turn his head but found that a neck brace was preventing just that. The woman who had spoken seemed to notice his struggle and leaned into his field of vision. “For a minute I thought we’d lost you.” Her voice was familiar. As was her face, now blurry.

“Hard to kill,” he croaked.

The woman reached for something, then held a glass of water with a straw to his lips. Francesco sucked a few mouthfuls of water and let the straw go. He was tired.

The woman said something, but he did not make out much of it, sleep pulling him under once more.

He dreamed, or maybe he just remembered, how rage had distorted his uncle’s face. How the light had reflected off the chair, that chair. How his head had whipped to the side with the force of the slap. Instead of feeling the pain, however, Francesco was watching himself, as a stranger would have. Or like a camera, trained on himself. He saw the specks of dust, the droplets of his own blood, so red, so beautiful on the white of his shirt, one the marble floor.

“I noticed you seem to be difficult to get rid off,” Lucrezia Donati said the next time he came around. This time, he managed to stay awake longer, to assess where he was and what shape his was in.

The fraud investigator was still by the side of his bed, or potentially again, since Francesco had no way of telling how much time passed between his waking moments. Now he knew where he had seen her before. A memory of light from a street lamp on the grey strands in her black hair came to him. The curve of her body under the sheets in her apartment. Francesco flushed a little.

Unsure of what to say, he stayed silent.

The walls of the hospital room were darker, the sun had moved on. Its light had hurt his head, so Francesco was glad.

He hoped that the neck brace was a precaution, but the fuzzy feeling in his ribs and his abdomen told him that there was more serious damage there. He also became painfully aware of the fact that he was most likely naked under the covers, his torso bandaged up into a cocoon. He would have tried to sneak a look, had one of his hands not been bandaged up - he had no idea why - and the other arm connected to a drip. He also did not feel capable of moving about a great deal, be it due to the nice fuzzy feeling or his tiredness.

“This is probably not the time to discuss this,” Lucrezia Donati said, “but you really need to look after yourself some more. If we hadn’t arrived on time-”

Francesco looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Your concussion,” the woman sputtered. “You probably don’t even remember.”

“I remember your voice,” Francesco said, quietly. It made her smile. A small smile, but the first real one.

“We had to pull him off you, you know?” She looked down at her hands. “I was worried that we were too late.”

Francesco tried to smile reassuringly, but drowsiness once more fell over him.

"But we will talk about this when you are better. For now you need to rest.”

Francesco wanted to protest, to say that he was fine, but his eyes refused to stay open long enough to communicate the thought.

It was dark in his room and he was alone. He managed to turn his head ever so slightly, but his eyes could not make out the corners of the room. A sliver of light showed him where the door was, shining through the gap at the bottom. 

Francesco wondered whether Guglielmo and Bianca were still in Bali, where they were supposed to be. Without knowing what day it was, he could not even predict when their honeymoon would be over and they back in Florence. He hoped that nobody had told them about what had happened at the Pazzi bank.

But what really had happened? He did not know what the police had done about Jacopo, about the bank, about the employees and Simonetta. Were they all being held? Had Jacopo escaped? Francesco’s heart began to race at the thought, the intense fear that his uncle might burst into his room causing his body to freak out. His breath was shallow and quick, actually painful. He welcomed the feeling. It grounded him. No more fuzziness. Or at least not as encompassing as before.

The door to his room banged open and Francesco’s eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden bright flash of light when the overhead light were switched on. Francesco tried to shrink back into the bed. If his uncle had come for him, he would need to roll himself off, to take cover.

Unfamiliar voices broke through the fog his panic had clouded his perception with. Two nurses, holding him down, gently but firmly. A doctor, checking something on the other side of his bed.

“It’s okay. Breathe.” The male nurse said. He met Francesco’s panicked gaze steadily, his eyes strangely blue. They reminded Francesco of Lorenzo and the thought calmed him. His uncle was not here. He was still in the hospital.

“That’s it.” The nurse smiled. “You’re safe. You will be okay.”

Francesco, exhausted and feeling raw, chose to take the route of least resistance and believe him. He let the drowsiness pull him under once more.

“Sleep.” The nurse said and Francesco obeyed.

“The doctor told me you had a panic attack tonight?” The investigator was back by the side of his bed. Francesco would have looked down at his hands, but he still wore the neck brace, so he stared at the wall instead.

“You are safe here. Your uncle is in prison and he will not be released on bail. You will also not be able to leave this room.” Her voice was monotonous now, as if she were reading off a particularly boring document. “One of my colleagues will always be stationed outside your door. It’s in your best interest to focus on healing. We’ll worry about the rest when we come to it.”

Francesco swallowed. Healing. The doctor had said it on his visit that morning, when he had checked his vitals and reassured him that it was perfectly normal for sufferers of post-traumatic stress disorder to suffer from flashbacks and panic attacks. That they were medicating him but that he would need to have therapy soon. That they could not keep turning off his body’s responses indefinitely.

Another male nurse had washed his face and his legs that morning. He had been able to catch a glimpse of the parts of his body that were not covered in bandages. There were large bruises on his thighs. He had wondered if they were from the kicks or from the chair. The nurse had also explained that he would need to press the button they had put next to his unbandaged hand if he needed to use the bathroom or any other assistance.

At least they trusted him to lift a glass of water to his mouth on his own, although he had been embarrassed to spill a lot of it on his first attempt. His muscles seemed to be less responsive. Peeing into a bottle the first time he had had to go to the bathroom had been especially humiliating.

The doctor had explained that, due to the nature of his injuries, he would need to stay in bed for a few more days before they would get him up on his feet again.

They had also began to scale back on the painkillers. He was more alert and awake, able to stay up for longer stretches of time, but he had also had to press the button once already because the pain had become so strong that his body had felt like it was seizing up and he had grit his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter. But he had not made a sound, had not cried out. Just clenched his jaw and breathed.

When the doctor and the investigator stood at his bed the next day, Francesco knew he was not going to enjoy what was about to come.

“We need to talk about your injuries.” Lucrezia Donati did not sit, as she usually had done. Instead, they both stood at the foot of his bed so Francesco had no choice but to look at them if he did not want to move himself about in bed. And that was painful, as he had discovered rather quickly. The new painkillers worked as long as he stayed in one position. As soon as he shifted, lightning bolts of hot pain shot through his chest.

“Not the concussion or the broken ribs or the ruptured organs or the sprained wrist,” the investigator continued, “but the older ones. The scars on your back. Your weight. You are underweight, did you know that?”

She looked at the doctor, who cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“A man your age and stature should weigh at least 60 kilograms. If I were to guess, I would say that you are at least five kilograms below that weight. And it is not less because of your muscle mass. You need to gain ten kilograms if you want no future damage to your heart and your inner organs.”

Francesco had not known how much he weighed. Or how much he should be weighing. The last time he had stood on a set of scales must have been at one of the childhood check-ups. And back then he had been on the chubby side of things.

“The weight can be fixed. I know for a fact that this is a more recent development. I am sure you will gain weight.” The investigator seemed intent on getting to her original point. Francesco briefly thought that this was an inappropriate moment to mention their past intimacy. “But the scars, especially the newer ones, throw up a few questions.”

They both looked at Francesco, apparently expecting him to spill the story. He kept his mouth firmly shut.

“Did your uncle beat you? What happened in your office was not the first time, was it? How often did he beat you? Did he sexually abuse you?” At that, Francesco’s eyes widened in disbelief. 

“Of course he didn’t,” he choked out.

“What did he use? A belt? A stick? A bat?”

Francesco grit his teeth. He a bead of sweat was building on his forehead. He felt like a child, being talked down on this way.

“You need to help us out here. If you want to press charges against your uncle, we need to know what happened. How often. Why it happened. You are safe here, Francesco, you are the victim. We want to help you end this, to make sure your uncle pays for what he did to you.”

“He didn’t do anything,” Francesco blurted out. He did not know why, but it was easy, easier than admitting all the things that had happened behind closed doors.

“Lucrezia Medici has told us that your uncle used corporal punishments on you as a child.”

Francesco gasped. They had spoken to Lorenzo’s mother? She had told them - she had known? Did Lorenzo know? How much had the police told them about what had happened? He felt panic roll over him once more, a tidal wave of epic force.

“He didn’t do anything.” He was sure that he was drowning, his voice low, raspy, as if he was choking.

The doctor and the investigator exchanged a look and she seemed to sigh. The doctor moved to the drip on the side of Francesco’s bed and adjusted it. 

“Breathe,” he instructed, not unkindly. “We will talk about this another time.”

Weakly, Francesco shook his head. He did not want to talk about it. There was nothing to be talked about. He registered with detached amusement how the medication calmed him down, the  _ I don't care _ juice flowing through his veins like white paint.


	29. Chapter 29

“You will be transferred soon,” Lucrezia Donati announced on her next visit. “Of course you’ll still receive treatment, but we need to get this case to trial.” She smiled apologetically and Francesco wondered what exactly she was feeling bad about. He had known that he submitted himself to life in prison and he had accepted it.

“Is my brother safe?” Francesco’s hands were restless in his lap. He finally sat upright, ribs still aching, stitches in his abdomen still sore, but he was sitting by his own strength.

“Of course he is. I actually managed to speak to him yesterday.”

Francesco’s head flew up and he felt the remnants of the concussion.

“When can I see him?”

The investigator looked away, refusing to make eye contact. Francesco felt his heart plummet in his chest. 

“No visitors, hm?” He bit his lip, his fingers tugging on the skin of his other hand. The nurses had removed the bandage after the physiotherapist and the doctor had deemed the sprain healed. Francesco still had no idea how it had happened, but he reasoned that he probably had tried to break his fall by supporting himself with one hand - and failed.

“Once the investigation is progressing, we can allow for visitors. You will be in jail, not in isolation.” She still would not meet his gaze. “You seem to have important friends, Francesco. Lorenzo Medici has been trying to move heaven and earth to get to speak to you. But protocol is protocol. And the same goes for your brother. They are safe, your uncle cannot get to them. But you will not be able to see them until you have been moved to the secure setting of the prison.”

Francesco hung his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Francesco was not sure what exactly he had been hoping for. Being unable to see his brother however was horrible. It hurt. And it made him anxious, against all reason. If he could not see for himself that Guglielmo was fine, how could he be sure? After all, the police could be lying about it.

“Lorenzo Medici did tell me to tell you that he honours his promise.” She sounded amused. “I hope this does not make the situation worse. I know how close you are to your brother-”

“No, you don’t,” Francesco burst out. “You have no idea. How am I supposed to trust you? I need to see him.”

He raised his head, pleading, imploring her with his eyes, but she remained stoically neutral. “How am I supposed to believe he is fine when I can’t see him? You could be lying. He could be anywhere - I can’t trust any of your bullshit!”

He wished he was able to get up, to leave, to retreat, to hide. Instead, he had to stay where he way, still connected to the drip, still unable to walk more than a few paces at a time.

At this moment, Francesco hated himself. Not for what he had done, but for his own weakness that had led to it in the first place. He hated the discoloured skin, the fading bruises, the pain in his chest and in his heart, the anxiety and the fear he simply could not shake.

“I promise you, as soon as we have taken your statement and you are assessed by our medical staff, you will be able to see them.” The investigator’s voice was kind, understanding and screamed of trustworthiness, yet Francesco could not believe a single word she said. Not until he would finally be able to see with his own eyes that Guglielmo was safe.

“We have not told either of them what exactly happened,” she continued. “I thought it might be better if you did. Your brother- well, he seemed to have no idea of what was going on. It is not our place to tell him if you don't want us to. I will leave it up to you.”

Francesco did not reply.  She was being too motherly. It did not suit her. Besides, he felt patronised.  He waited until she left the room with the promise to be there when he was transferred, before he slid down under the covers, rolling up and folding himself into as small a ball as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it too early to tease that we will be meeting a very old friend soon?  
> Naaah. Actually. We've already met him.   
> But more soon!


	30. Chapter 30

The interrogation room was as plain and sterile as his cell and the corridors Francesco had passed through on his way. It felt odd, wearing plain clothes over the large plaster on his stomach and sitting in as gloomy a place as this without the hope of being released back into freedom. Francesco had been sitting in his chair, as if he was waiting for an appointment, for quite some time. The guard had dropped him off and left the room, a camera up in a corner was trained on him and he waited and then waited some more. He had stopped counting the seconds after five minutes, then his breaths, then the sips he had taken from the paper cup of coffee they had set in front of him. The scent of cheap coffee mixed with that of sweat and bleach and cold, stale air. He could have stayed in his cell for a nap, he reflected. Being weaned off the painkillers was more troublesome than he had expected and his energy levels were nowhere near normal yet. The prison medic, echoing the doctors in the hospital, had reiterated that his internal wounds needed time as well as energy to heal, just as the external ones did. His ribs would take the most time. Nothing had been said about his mind.

Finally, the door opened and the fraud investigator entered, carrying a stack of files, among which Francesco recognised the folder he had compiled for her. A man followed, positioning himself in the corner behind her left shoulder, his eyes trained on Francesco.

"Are you comfortable?” she asked and Francesco nodded. The entire setup made his insides coil and twist into impossible knots. Comfort was not exactly his priority. But since he was not in any pain or major discomfort, this was as good as it would get.

“For the record, my name is Lucrezia Donati, fraud investigator, present is my colleague Giacomo Rinaldi. Investigation Number 2641478, case Pazzi. Please state your full name.” She motioned for Francesco to speak.

“Francesco Antonio Pazzi.”

“Thank you. Right.” She spread her files out in front of her. “Let’s start at the beginning. When did you first suspect your uncle was abusing his position and actively committing fraud?”

Francesco searched his memory. Things had been normal at first, after he had joined the bank, but then, gradually, almost imperceptibly, there had been errors. Or had they been there from the beginning? His uncle had never reacted well to his questions about issues with the accounts and there had always been problems. He usually had been blamed for them, and punished, without Jacopo giving away any hint of involvement.

Francesco tried to explain what could not be explained. How he was caught in the web of misdeeds and a little tweaking here and there that had been going on for years.

The investigator pressed mercilessly for details and Francesco found himself sweating, then shivering, then sweating again. His head felt heavy and his thoughts sluggish by the time she let him go for the night. Her colleague almost seemed to be ready to interfere, to keep going, but she nipped his protest with a single glare in his direction.

Francesco almost fell on the way back to his cell. The guard, always a step behind him, caught him by the elbow before he could find himself on the floor. Francesco thanked him and dragged himself on. His feet were as heavy as his head and the rest of him kept being pulled down with the exhaustion. He had barely made it onto the bed in his small cell before his eyelids fell closed and sleep claimed him.

He dreamed about the early days of moving to his uncle’s place, about the many tears he had shed, quietly in the dead of night, and about the slaps and harsh words he had not yet learned to avoid or handle. 

The next day, they continued where they had left off. Francesco’s head was pounding and he felt as if this was the first week of becoming sober after years of heavy addiction. His muscles still would not comply and he hid his hands under the table to mask the constant tremor.

“Who else helped you hide the evidence of your uncle’s fraud?”

“Nobody.”

The man in the corner snorted.

“You said you would be compliant, Francesco, you could not possibly have done all of this yourself. Who helped you?”

“I did it by myself,” Francesco insisted.

“Was is the accountant who was let go recently? Umberto?”

“No.”

“How about your uncle’s secretary, Simonetta?”

“No.” It was not technically true, but keeping her out of this was as much as Francesco could do for the kind elderly woman.

“What about the other accountants.”

“Nobody knew.”

“I have trouble believing you, Francesco.”

He sighed and lifted a shaking hand to rub his face. The shadow of a beard itched on his cheeks. Before he had been transferred, a nurse at the hospital had shaved his stubble, but now his hands were too unsteady to do it by himself and he was too tired to care.

“I handled all of the sensitive data. People came to me with questions. I told them what to do. They had no idea.”

“Why?”

Francesco looked at the investigator, confused and with a fuzzy, woollen taste in his mouth.

“Why did you do as your uncle said?”

“Because there would have been consequences.”

“What consequences?”

“He threatened Guglielmo.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes.”

“But your brother did not live with your uncle for more than a few years and never worked with either of you. He has not had any contact with Jacopo for years.”

“But he would have been harmed. I could not let anything happen to him.”

“So your uncle threatened to harm your brother if you did not comply?”

“Yes,” said, tiredly. Was he failing to make his point or was the investigator spinning his words against him? His head pounded, refusing to let him consider any answer to the pile of questions crammed in there.

“But how would he have harmed him? We could not find any evidence apart from the abuse you have suffered, that your uncle ever laid a hand on anyone else.”

“He would have found a way. He has contacts. He would have had him stabbed or spread rumours about him or got him fired. I don’t know how he does these things. But they happen!” Francesco was grasping for memories and thoughts that made sense, but they were running through his mind like sand through his hands. He knew they were there, but they evaded him and retreated into corners where he had no power over them.

Francesco bent over in his chair. He was breathing heavily. Trying to think straight was like wading through tar.

He heard the sound of papers being shuffled.

“We will continue tomorrow. This is not going anywhere.”

Lucrezia Donati got up and left the room, her colleague following closely behind.

Francesco felt like hitting his head against the polished tabletop. Repeating years’ worth of knowledge and memories was excruciating and he found that his mind had shut him out of much of it. The more painful the memory, the more confusing, the less likely he was able to grasp it and put it into words. Describing the truth and determination in his uncle’s eyes with every threat, the sense of impending danger was like defining a sound. He failed time and time again.

“Why now?” The investigator sipped on a cup of coffee and stared at Francesco, who had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. Another night of tossing and turning, of pain and grit teeth had left him even more exhausted and his body felt raw, as if he had been grated with sandpaper on both the outside and the inside. “Why would you hand yourself over now that you made it onto the Board?”

“He threatened to kill Guglielmo and Bianca. He saw me at the wedding even though he had forbidden it.”

“Your uncle has not confessed to anything. But we have found no connections to the mafia or other known contacts within the organised crime networks. Your uncle was making empty threats once more.”

“He was serious. Something would have happened to them. I could not allow that.”

“And your role on the Board? Are you trying to tell us that you did not enjoy helping your uncle? That you did not enjoy the power and the status you had within the bank?”

Francesco gaped at the man in the corner. He had occasionally taken over the interrogation, but this theory was so far removed from Francesco’s reality that he did not know what to say.

“I- No, of course not!”

“Then why were you promoted? Ratting out secrets is a bad way of paying your boss back for your new position, isn’t it?”

“It was a ruse- I was supposed to take over, so-”

“Exactly. You were going to take over. How can we trust that you did not act out of your own interest when you falsified the accounts?”

“Because I’m telling you.”

“But there is almost no proof. Your word is not worth anything without proof. And the files say that you changed the accounts.”

“But the pension scheme-”

“That is a single action you say your uncle has devised. But what about the other accounts? Several years’ worth of account discrepancies you personally tampered with.”

“I’m telling you, I did not do it because I wanted to. He would have punished me. He would have punished Guglielmo!”

“And yet you refuse to have us charge him for abuse and assault. You are not making sense, Francesco.”

Francesco searched for an answer, for something he had not said yet, for another way of phrasing how living in this hell had made him into the traitor and fraudster he now was. How his uncle’s every word and action had pushed him into corners and traps. 

The tremors spread from his hands upwards, his whole body shaking under the effort of trying, trying so hard, to make sense of his memories and of the pain that lay over everything like dust.

He tried to stand, to walk to the door, but his muscles were not responding. He opened his mouth to defend himself, to explain what could not be explained in any other words than the ones he had already used. His breathing was quick and shallow. Then the floor was cold against his cheek.

“-told you not to put too much pressure on him!”

The voice of the prison medic was loud in Francesco’s ears. His entire body felt as if someone had tried to grate him like a lemon.

“You have all the evidence for severe abuse and trauma - of course he would not press charges. Jesus, what do they teach in police school these days? An abuse victim will always,  _ always _ defend the abuser and blame themselves. Of course he believed him. Of course his memories are useless - because he is mentally incapable of handling them. I thought the briefing on his condition was clear enough. You can’t apply pressure like that on a person suffering from PTSD. They crack and then they’re even less useful to you.”

“We tried.” The voice of the investigator was defensive. Francesco tried to fall back asleep, but the volume hurt his ears too much. “We tried the nice way. It’s like talking to a brick wall. Or a parrot.”

“Of course it is. Come on. I know this is a huge case and you need answers, but I was under the impression that you already had everything you needed for a conviction - and more.”

“But it has to stand up in Court! We need as much detail was possible. There could be any hidden fail-safes that we don’t know about and that will break our necks in the trial.”

“But he is not the person to give you any of that, and you know it. You know that I am obligated to flag this, right?”

Francesco shifted, trying to move away from the noise.

“Welcome back,” the voice closest to him said. “Let’s get you up and back to your cell.”

When he opened his eyes, he recognised the prison medic’s smiling face. He tried not to show how much of their exchange he had overheard, surely there would be consequences if they knew he had been awake through the entire shouting part. But his head hurt too much to consider any of it in greater detail.

He accepted the medic’s arm, as well as the guard’s, since his body most definitely had stopped complying and screamed for rest.

“Don’t worry,” the medic said when he had made sure Francesco was comfortable on his narrow bed and warmly wrapped in blankets. “This was the last time anyone will ever treat you like this. You have my word.” Francesco would have smiled and thanked him, but he doubted that the medic’s power went much further than the bars of Francesco’s small cell. He nodded and closed his eyes. The noise of the door being closed was muted in his ears and the last thing he found himself thinking about was whether living this life was actually worth all the trouble.


	31. Chapter 31

When Francesco was lead into the interrogation room two days later, a vaguely familiar man sat on his side of the table, a pristine suit and leather file on the table making the police and even Lucrezia Donati look disorganised and dishevelled in comparison. His wild curls were untamed and streaked with silver. Francesco remembered him from Bianca and Guglielmo's wedding. He had walked her down the aisle – what was he doing here?

“Signor Pazzi,” the man said and extended a hand for Francesco to shake. Francesco took it, gaping at the man’s polite but professional smile. “My name is Marco Bello. I will be representing you as your lawyer.”

Francesco was dumbfounded. “I cannot pay you,” he stammered.

“Don’t worry. Our mutual friend Signor Medici made sure to send his regards. He looks forward to seeing you again as soon as this ordeal is over.”

Marco Bello shot a pointed look in the direction of the investigator, who was alone with them this time. Francesco wondered if the medic had anything to do with this sudden change of personnel. Surely not even Lorenzo was powerful enough to be kept in the loop on his rival's fraud investigation.

“I- I am grateful for your help,” Francesco said and meant it. Having someone - anyone - on his side who knew what on earth was going on would be a great relief.

“No legal representation in a case where you are not accused but rather the informant was bordering gross misconduct. I will be advising you with regards to which questions are in your interest to answer and which you are entitled to skip, so as not to further incriminate yourself.”

Francesco nodded. Marco Bello’s strong appearance, such a stark contrast to how weak he himself felt, was as if someone was propping him up and carrying him through the long hours of interrogation and painful memories.

After several days, Lucrezia Donati and even her colleague seemed, in fact, to be running out of questions, as Marco delicately noted and added that this meant that the end of the ordeal was in sight.

“May I have a few minutes to talk to my client in private?” the lawyer asked at the end of a particularly unproductive day that had culminated in the fraud investigator’s admission that they did, indeed, have everything they needed to begin the trial the following week.

After the investigator had left the room, Marco stretched in his chair and turned to Francesco with a relaxed smile.

“Don’t worry. I do not intend to let them incarcerate you any longer than absolutely necessary - mostly for your own protection.”

“Did they find out who Ja- my uncle worked with?” Francesco’s nerves zinged.

Marco looked slightly confused.

“This is the first I hear of it - I mean, of course you mentioned threats against your brother and the Medici, but the police never communicated that third parties were involved.”

Francesco lowered his gaze. 

“They wouldn’t believe me. And I don’t have any proof. But I am not the one in danger - Guglielmo is.”

“I will look into it,” Marco promised and Francesco believed him. After all, he had so far over-delivered on his promises and the police had never gotten to Francesco the way they had the day he had passed out in the middle of it.

“Signor Medici has not fully informed your brother of what has transpired, although I have kept Lorenzo informed, naturally. But as it stands, you will need someone close to you, someone who you will be able to live with or close to, to vouch for you if I am to get you out of here on probation. It goes without saying that you will never be able to work as an accountant ever again. The police will probably also recommend therapy - especially if you press charges for abuse and assault.”

Francesco quickly shook his head. “No.”

Marco looked at him with an oddly sad expression.

“I cannot force you to do it,” he said, “but I do implore you to give us and the justice system the chance to make this right by you.”

“But I would have to tell them everything. Guglielmo would find out. They all would.”

“I think your brother has your best interest at heart, don’t you? Nobody can force you to repeat your statement in court, I can read it out for you, you do not even have to look at your uncle. You just have to consent to the prosecution taking on the case.”

“No.” Francesco’s voice shook. “You don’t understand-”

Marco sighed and put his hand on Francesco’s shoulder in a surprisingly fatherly gesture. “But I do, believe me. It is your choice and all I want is for you to get out of this and still be able to live with yourself. Think about it. Sleep on it.”

“I won’t. And I don’t want Guglielmo to find out. If he is not able to vouch for me with what he knows, then I accept the prison sentence.”

“Are you sure? Fifteen years is a long time.”

Francesco nodded. “I am sure.”

“You are doing a very selfless and noble thing, Francesco. But sometimes you have to be selfish. If not for your sake, then for that of your brother, of your friends. They also need you in their lives, you know?”

Francesco blinked, embarrassed since he had never even considered the possibility, and looked away.

“I cannot accept any more sacrifices. Even your presence here is more than I could ever afford or deserve.”

“We’ll all do our best, okay?” Marco Bello smiled at Francesco, who still could not meet his eye. He nodded, unable to speak or give words to the whirlwind of emotions the chance of walking away from this sterile hell had stirred up inside him. But allowing himself to dream of walking the streets of Florence as a free man was wrong. He did not deserve to walk free, he had broken the law. He needed to be punished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't I promise a familiar face?  
> How many of you guessed who it would be? Do let me know!
> 
> Oh my, we will be finished by Sunday! How sad and how exciting.  
> I hope you are enjoying this work of fiction and are safe and in good health.
> 
> Stay safe x


	32. Chapter 32

“All rise for the pronouncement of the verdict in the case of the Italian State against Francesco Antonio Pazzi. The accused has plead guilty to charges of fraud and assisting fraud. His full cooperation has been duly noted by the Court.”

Francesco’s palms were sweaty and he felt his body tremble, subtly, while he tried not to sway on his feet. The hours of arguments between prosecution and defence had been long, he had felt as if his own words were a rope that was being pulled out of him and then used to strangle him with.

The pressure of the interrogation, of hearing all the wrongs he had done, was almost unbearable. But Marco had thrown all he had in defence of Francesco’s actions, for which he would be eternally grateful. Marco was a force to be reckoned with. Without him, Francesco would have drowned in the accusations.

“The Court has ruled that Francesco Antonio Pazzi will serve a prison sentence of five years and four months.”

Francesco’s pulse dropped so fast that he had to grip the edge of the table in front of him to stay on his feet. Marco did not move.

“The sentence has been commuted to be served under probation. The accused will need to sign in weekly at a designated police station. As his guarantor stands Signor Lorenzo Medici of Florence. Furthermore the Court has ruled that Francesco Pazzi will never again be eligible to work in financial administrations and that he will have to undergo therapy in compliance with the terms of his probation.”

Francesco’s knees finally gave in and he dropped down onto his chair while the Judge dismissed the Court. He felt light-headed and a thousand thoughts were whirling through his mind. Why had Lorenzo decided to vouch for him? Surely that would prove detrimental for his own bank. Helping out a convicted fraudster - it was simply unthinkable.

Francesco jumped when he felt Marco’s warm hand on his shoulder.

“See, all’s well that ends well. Congratulations, Francesco, you are a free man.”

Francesco could only gape up at him, lost for words.

“As for your uncle, even without the assault and abuse cases, I doubt he will set foot on the streets of Florence for a very long time, if ever again. Although it would have helped to get him in there for longer had you agreed to let them prosecute him on all charges.”

Francesco shook his head, still in disbelief. He struggled to his feet and shook the hand Marcello extended towards him, as well as that of the prosecutor, who had wandered over to congratulate Marco on his success. Once all of the formalities of the trial were over, everyone seemed to be getting on just fine - it was only during the hearings that battle lines were drawn and rigidly adhered to.

“Lorenzo- why-” Francesco struggled to form a sentence, the shock of the verdict still sending tremors through his body and he had to grit his teeth to stop them from chattering.

“Lorenzo Medici is a good man and a good friend. I am sure he will be eager to tell you all about his reasoning himself.”

Francesco followed Marco out of the courtroom in a daze. Almost as if watching himself, he approached the front door of the building, the space unfamiliar to him since he had been brought in through the back, where the police car had been parked that had transported him from prison to the court building. 

The sun shone through large glass windows and marble floors and pillars adorned the entrance hall. A few people were milling about, lawyers, witnesses, reporters on breaks from more important trials.

“Well, I am sure we’ll see each other around,” Marco said, pausing near a set of doors that were marked as administration. “I will send the documents regarding the therapy and weekly attendance to Lorenzo’s address, but he has assured me that he will pass them on to you.”

Francesco stared for a moment. Why would he be at the Medici Palazzo instead of his flat? But Marco was already turning away from him, so he skipped all the questions he wanted to ask in favour of the most important bit.

“Thank you so much, Signor Bello. I- I cannot thank you enough. If you had not helped me…” He trailed off, not quite wanting to go back to that dark place. Marcello understood regardless and smiled.

“You are a brave man, Francesco. Good luck for your future.”

They shook hands once more and Marco disappeared through the door, leaving Francesco on his own in the large entrance hall. It was quiet, a gentle hum of scattered conversations. He was free. He took one step and swayed a little. It was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He would not be able to leave Florence, but he was free. He would be able to see Guglielmo. To see Lorenzo and Clarice. To visit his parents’ grave. To live.

Then uncertainty descended over him like a dark cloud. Where was he to go from here? What would that big and supposedly bright future demand he do? He had not been forced to choose a direction in which to walk for weeks. It was the end of summer, Florence would be crowded with tourists and all those who could afford it would have fled the city for the seaside or their country houses. Guglielmo and Bianca might have gone on their first proper holiday as a couple, Francesco doubted they would be home. The Medici would most likely have moved to their summer house as well, he remembered the vast expanse of the grounds, the vineyard and olive trees him and Lorenzo had played in as children. It had been a magical place.

Francesco dreaded going to his small apartment. He would not be able to afford to keep it, not without his job. His job. What was he supposed to do from now on? He only knew how to be an accountant, his life had been spent preparing himself to take up his duties in the Pazzi bank. And what was to become of the bank now that they were barred from business and he was barred from anything to do with it?

Francesco felt a lump rise in his throat. The joy and lightness the moment of freedom had brought him vanished, replaced by the oppressing weight of dread and worry. It felt awfully familiar and Francesco’s gaze blurred as he looked about him, not really seeing the marble pillars and people around him.

He remembered that he had seen a wooden bench close to the nearest window, so he let his feet drag him to it and slump down. Francesco buried his face in his hands, pressing his palms into his eye sockets until he saw stars in the black of his eyelids. 

“Hey,” a soft, familiar voice sounded right in front of him, close to his face. So close, in fact, that he felt the other’s breath on the backs of his hands, warm and alive.

Lorenzo Medici laid a hesitant hand on Francesco’s wrist, gently prizing his hands away from his face.

He smiled, all sunlight in his hair and joy in his blue eyes. As if Francesco mattered, as if he was not a criminal but a friend. As if he cared.

“Marco rang me. I was waiting outside, but I was not sure when you would be finished, so…” Lorenzo stood up from where he had crouched in front of Francesco and slipped his hands into his pockets. He wore long linen trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, his sunglasses dangling precariously from where he had hooked them into the buttons.

“You vouched for me.” Francesco remembered.

Lorenzo looked unphased. “You are my friend. You are family. You would have done the same for me.”

Francesco felt himself retreat. Would he have done the same?

Lorenzo seemed to sense that this was not the best path to go down at this time. He extended a hand for Francesco to grasp.

“Come on. They’re all waiting in the garden. We are having a little celebration. You are a free man now.”

Francesco let himself be pulled up but did not follow Lorenzo, who strode ahead with this innate confidence that had always set Francesco on edge, because he himself would never be able to move like this. Because he doubted himself before he even moved a single muscle.

Lorenzo noticed that he was not keeping pace and turned back to look at Francesco, a worried crease on his forehead.

“Or you could have a rest, if you don’t feel like celebrating,” he said, quickly, and ran a hand across his neck.

“Who is we?” Francesco asked.

“Guglielmo, Bianca, Clarice, my mother, Giuliano, just family.”

Family. They were family now, were they not?

“But I thought you would all be-”

“In the countryside? No way. You matter, Francesco. We were all worried sick. Don’t worry, I made sure Guglielmo did not find out what really happened,” Lorenzo hastened to explain. He took a step towards Francesco, for the first time really inspecting the other’s face. “We don’t need to talk about it. Not yet anyway. I just-” Lorenzo paused and Francesco was silently surprised to see him struggle for words, although embarrassment at Lorenzo’s scrutiny and knowledge still overweighed. “I want you to know that I am so sorry.”

Lorenzo’s eyes showed so much compassion, so much empathy for his pain, that Francesco had to break his gaze, look away and bite his lip to contain the abyss of emotions he was about to fall back into.

“You saved me.” He managed to say, not sure if his voice even carried across the small distance between them.

“We’ll talk about it another time,” Lorenzo said and it sounded like a promise instead of a threat. “There are people who want to see you.”

He put an arm around Francesco’s shoulder, only briefly shifting when he noticed how bony the other’s shoulder felt under his strong grip, and gently pulled him towards the doors.

“The party is not as unselfish as you might think,” Lorenzo added with an almost embarrassed chuckle. “Clarice and I are getting married. We wanted to celebrate it with you. The others don’t know yet.”

Francesco could not help the big smile the spread on his face.

“That’s wonderful. I’m happy for you,” he said and meant every single word.


	33. Chapter 33

“Same time next week. Remember to practice that meditation I gave you.”

Francesco nodded and tentatively shook his therapist’s hand. Even after a full month of weekly sessions and group meetings, he still struggled to let down his guard, let alone inviting a stranger into his private thoughts and memories. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and gave a slightly awkward wave over his shoulder as he left the sun-drenched office. He let himself out of the building and stepped out into the late afternoon. His t-shirt shifted as the breeze caught on it and his hair tumbled into his eyes.  It was still warm, but the air was smelling more crisp and at night the temperatures dropped sharply. Dark clouds on the horizon announced autumn's impending arrival.

His headaches had ceased since he had begun wearing his glasses for most of the day. Giuliano was teasing him about it, saying he looked more and more like a pseudo-intellectual with every passing day - or like a hippie, if Giuliano was in a good mood - but Francesco found that he did not actually mind. He was comfortable watching the world through an extra barrier. He was also growing a moustache that had prompted Lorenzo to join his brother’s teasing efforts. Francesco knew that he would eventually give in to Lorenzo on that front, simply because Lorenzo always got his way. The tremors had lessened but most of the time shaving properly was too much effort. 

He took his time returning to the Medici Palazzo. He still lived with Guglielmo’s family-in-law after he had more or less been forced to vacate his flat for the first two weeks after the trial. Lorenzo and Guglielmo had been relentlessly caring and nurturing to the point of being overbearing. After the first week, most of which Francesco had spent sleeping or being in one medical facility or another, Giuliano had decided that it was about time that he got used to being not special again and had started teasing him. Francesco had been oddly grateful. It was normal, it was who Giuliano was, completely true to his character and their strange relationship of begrudging mutual respect masked as snarky comments and bad jokes.

Francesco felt the sun on his face and he enjoyed it. He knew that the summer was slowly coming to an end and the days of resting and recovering, too, would eventually be over. He had decided that maybe in his next appointment with the psychiatrist, he might address the tentative plan that had begun to form in his mind about what he wanted to do with his life, now that so many things had irreversibly changed.

He stopped at a small door around the corner from the main entrance and fumbled the spare keys out of his pocket. Lucrezia had been incredibly generous to him, he knew, but he had yet to muster the courage to thank her for it. Her eyes kept shining dangerously whenever he caught her looking at him, and he would be the last person to voluntarily expose himself to an emotional outbreak - or cause one. 

The household was far from quiet, contrary to what one might expect at the end of a long week. People were rushing in and out of the courtyards, carrying tables and chairs and linens. Francesco dodged a huge flower arrangement, pressing his back against the door frame to the private wing of the palazzo.

All signs showed that another wedding was taking place the following day, but this time Francesco was invited, free to attend and not obliged to hold any speeches, for which he was immensely grateful. Lorenzo had chosen Sandro as his best man, after making sure Francesco was okay with it. Francesco had almost laughed in Lorenzo’s face, it was his wedding after all, but the earnest look in the other's eyes had made him shake his head and smile that new smile he had found he enjoyed using, to put his friend at ease.

“Good, I’m glad,” Lorenzo had replied with a relieved sigh, before dropping the next bombshell. “Because we want you to be the godfather.”

“The what?” Giuliano, who had been playing on his phone so quietly they had forgotten he was in the room, had nearly fainted with how quickly he had shot out of his comfortable lounge on the couch. Francesco had only silently agreed, gaping at Lorenzo. The older Medici had blushed and stuttered a little.

“Clarice is having a baby. The twelve weeks mark passed two days ago.”

“Does mum know?” Giuliano’s jaw still threatened to fall off and onto the floor.

“Congratulations!” Francesco had finally managed to say.

“Thanks. I wanted to tell you first. I mean it kind of is the reason we’re getting married already.”

“That and your disgustingly happy relationship,” Giuliano had cut in.

“I’d be honoured to be a godfather. But I think maybe Giuliano should-”

“Hell no. Nope. No children. Not my own. And especially not his!”

Lorenzo had turned to Francesco with a shrug and an easy grin. “See? So, uncle Francesco.”

Francesco’s heart had jumped in his chest at the sound of it.

“But what if I-” His worries clouded over the happiness.

Lorenzo had gently put his hands on Francesco’s shoulders, their weight and warmth comforting and grounding.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be great. Stop overthinking this.”

“And you can always give it back when it starts making noises or shits.”

“A baby is not a dog, Giuliano,” Lorenzo had said with a roll of his eyes.

So the Medici family was not only buzzing about the second wedding that year, but also about the news that offspring was on its way.

The next day, after all of the big speeches and the ceremony, Francesco found himself at a table with Guglielmo and Bianca. Lucrezia, ever the considerate party planner, had seated them on the edge of the courtyard, close to one of the large connecting doors and far enough from the crowds that Francesco could feel safe while Bianca was still close enough to where the families of the bride and groom were placed.

Francesco nipped on a glass of cold water, heart-shaped ice cubes clinking against each other. He noticed that Bianca, too, stayed clear off the alcohol. Guglielmo was already well on the way to being tipsy, not that either of them was surprised at it. They were still tan and looked rested, in spite of the more recent events. They continued their married life where they had left off before the ceremony. Francesco, however, still felt a barrier of the things he kept to himself between him and his brother.

Francesco scooted a little closer to his sister-in-law and leaned in to be able to speak into her ear over all of the noise without being overheard.

“Is there something we should know?” He nodded at the glass of juice in front of her.

Bianca flushed and a smile crept onto her lips. She folder her hands in her lap, the loose folds of her dark dress being flattened over her stomach.

“Don’t tell anyone just yet,” she whispered back, beaming.

Francesco could not help but be infected by her smile. He looked from her to Guglielmo and back, ran a hand through his hair and laughed, breathlessly. 

“Congratulations! That’s- that’s amazing! I am so happy for you.”

“Thank you. Guglielmo is quite nervous though.” Bianca glanced at her husband, who was happily chatting with a friend who had dropped by their table.

“He will come around.”

“No, he is happy, don’t get me wrong. I think he is nervous. Maybe- I hoped you could talk to him about it? Once we have announced it. I think he is scared that something might go wrong and wants to hold off. At least until the announcement.”

Francesco frowned.

“I’m not the right person to talk about that-”

“You are his brother.” Bianca smiled at Francesco, full of warmth and understanding. “He trusts you and I know that you can reassure him. And that is all he needs.”

“He will be a wonderful father,” Francesco agreed.

“What about you?” 

“Me?” Francesco squirmed in his seat. “I doubt I am much use at the moment. I have a lot to figure out.”

Bianca reached out a hand and squeezed Francesco’s, gently. 

“And you’re doing great. It is such a relief to see you laugh and smile again.”

Francesco lowered his head, feeling a blush creep into his cheeks and neck. It was true, he did feel lighter and more like the person he had known he could be, or even was on the inside.

“What are you two whispering about?” Lorenzo had snuck up on them and was now playfully tugging on his sister’s curls. She swatted at his hand and Francesco smiled involuntarily. The Medici, as much as he knew they too had problems, had such an air of lightness and ease about them. His uncle would have sneered and pointed out that they used it to mask their issues, but Francesco had come to realise over the past few weeks that it was their way of dealing with life. And to him, it was infinitely better than brushing things off or being sly and secretive. It had weighed him down so much and now, with that weight being gone, he felt that he stood taller than ever. He was not yet strong enough to withstand the things life would keep throwing at him - as his therapist had put it - but if he kept exercising his mental strength and his resilience, if he rebuilt himself, he would be fit to finally start living instead of merely existing in the shadows of others.

“We were talking about how exciting it is that we’ll soon have a new generation running through the place and threatening to break Mamma’s vases.” Bianca smiled sweetly at Lorenzo, who rolled his eyes.

“You’ll never let that one go, will you?”

“Nope.” She grinned.

"Do you have a moment?” Lorenzo asked and looked at Francesco, who shrugged and got up. He followed Lorenzo into a more quiet part of the ground floor galleries, where Lorenzo stopped by a statue and turned to face him. His face was serious all of a sudden and a cautious look was in his eyes.

“Marco called yesterday evening,” Lorenzo began and Francesco’s heart dropped.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked and knew he looked like a schoolboy being dragged in front of the headteacher.

“No, of course not,” Lorenzo said with some surprise and gently squeezed Francesco’s shoulder. “I think it might be good news, but anyway, he called yesterday and I did not have any time to speak with you until now, so here we go.”

The way he was avoiding coming to the point made Francesco suspect that there was something gravely important or even bad. Lorenzo was more upfront about good things, so this evasive waffling sparked distrust in his mind.

“He followed up on something you apparently said during the, uhm, questioning. The police were hesitant to follow it up, but you know Marco, he can be very persuasive. So, turns out your uncle did actually have connections down to Naples, through some friend or other.”

Francesco swallowed, hard. Naples was usually bad news, especially combined with his uncle.

“You were right about his threats. They found some correspondence in an office one of the families down there use that they did not bother hide properly. Of course your uncle destroyed any evidence of their contact, but the emails and phone records they found in Naples establish that he was using them for jobs here in Florence. Even your brother’s name was mentioned once or twice.”

Francesco felt the blood drain from his face and he had to reach out to the plinth of the statue to steady himself.

“Don’t worry, nothing can happen to him now. It has all been taken care of and the police down there were quite thankful for yet another reason to lock them up for good. Your brother is safe. You are safe.”

Francesco had a strong rushing sound in his ears that nearly blocked out what Lorenzo was saying. He managed a weak nod but did not trust himself to do anything other than breathe and remain on his feet.

Just then, Guglielmo joined them, smiling and slightly out of breath.

“What are you two plotting now?” He grinned and stemmed his hands into his sides, before noticing how Francesco was gripping onto the marble statue and pale as death. Lorenzo looked from one to the other and sighed. “What- What’s wrong? Was there bad news?”

“No, good news, sort of.” Lorenzo hesitated a moment before continuing. “Marco Bello, the lawyer my family work with and that helped your brother followed up some leads with the police and I was just telling Francesco that they were successful in cracking down on a Mafia link your uncle had with Naples. Apparently he used them to intimidate and threaten people.”

Guglielmo paled and seemed to sober up in an instant. 

“The Mafia?” he gasped and rushed to check on Francesco.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Lorenzo said and Francesco was grateful that he did, because he himself felt incapable of convincingly consoling his brother’s worries. At least, not yet.

“You knew?” Guglielmo looked Francesco in the eye and he had to avert his gaze.

“He suspected. But there was no proof here. Francesco tried to warn the police, but they were slow to pick up on it.” 

“You should have said-” Guglielmo sounded lost and vulnerable all of a sudden.

“You were getting married,” Francesco managed to press out through gritted teeth.

“I think we should all take a moment to recompose ourselves,” Lorenzo said. “And then I have my wedding dance to perform, for which I expect strong support and loud cheers. Maybe you two should talk soon, on a quiet day, and finally level out on what happened these past few years.”

Lorenzo’s imploring stare was mostly directed at Francesco, who shrank away under it, even though he knew that the time to tell Guglielmo the full story was quickly approaching. His brother had been endlessly patient with him, his puppy-eyed glances when he thought Francesco wasn't looking the only clues as to the unresolved mystery his younger brother was. He also knew that he would not be ready, but he had come to realise that he never would be. And that that was okay. His brother deserved to learn the truth.

Lorenzo left them and Francesco finally managed to straighten up and look Guglielmo in the eye. 

“He’s right,” he admitted. “But today is not the day.”

“You don’t have to rush this, whatever it is.” Guglielmo smiled, a small, sad smile. “I know it is painful for you.”

Francesco brushed his concern aside.

“I need to talk to someone about it. And you need to know why all of this has happened. You deserve to know, whether I like it or not.”

“Wise words.” Guglielmo draped an arm around Francesco’s shoulder and half-hugged him. 

“Let’s go and watch Lorenzo make a fool of himself.”

Francesco bit his lip before grinning back at his brother and remembering that his therapist had told him to stop eating himself up with his worries.

The center of the courtyard had been cleared into a dance floor and a DJ, the same one as at Guglielmo’s and Bianca’s wedding, was installed behind his mixing desk.

“Let’s put our hands together for the bride and groom - Lorenzo and Clarice!” he shouted into his microphone and the courtyard erupted into loud cheers and whistles. Francesco saw Giuliano whistle through two fingers and Sandro shouted something not quite child-friendly while Lorenzo and Clarice took to the dance floor and smiled at each other. They looked perfect, as perfect as Guglielmo and Bianca were for each other. Part of Francesco longed to find this other person for himself, but he knew that he would have to bide his time - if it ever came. He had so much to learn first.

“So, have you thought about what you want to do once you are, you know, better?” Guglielmo asked while Lorenzo and Clarice turned in their own little universe with the rhythm of the pop song they had chosen for their first dance.

Francesco allowed a small smile onto his face. He had not yet told anyone about this dream he had started to have during good moments of his new life. Not the nightmares that still haunted him, but a daydream, almost a vision.

“I was thinking that I would like to work with teenagers and young adults, to teach them how to handle catastrophes and how to stand up for themselves.”

“Like a social worker?” Guglielmo sounded intrigued by the idea.

“Kind of. I don’t know if I will be allowed to. Because of my criminal record. But maybe there is a charity out there that needs volunteers or can offer some training.”

“That sounds wonderful.” 

Francesco nodded, slowly. It did sound wonderful. And it gave him the power and tools to make sure that what had happened to him would not happen to another innocent child out there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was that.  
> Thank you for reading this piece of fan art!   
> I hope you enjoyed, feel free to strike up a conversation in the comments, I am always happy to get feedback and impressions from my regular readers.
> 
> Please take good care of yourselves and stay safe x


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